buena vista

things come and go
like sanity, babies, and snow
you never know
when the blade swings low
and next your ear
you might hear
the swish swash of death
drawing near
what will a person do
hide in boxes
and run from blue
that'd be as near to dieing
as swallow to chew
it impossible to know
the sun, rain and snow
without the truth
that all will come
and all will go.