'What Is Born' Poem by Linda Winchell

Out of the womb, seeds planted grown
From first breath, to its last.
Going about, ones daily chores
of that given, life long
inner, programed tasks.

To sometimes, do the impossible
and the grave, viewed not, yet be its goal.
In order to gain, if only a moments touch
what is thought too own, of gold.

And yet, in end, to see it clearer
then, all in time, to fade away.
Maybe finding, ones spiritual connection
in their own, deep Godly kind of way.

A man is not old, until he regrets
that real life, takes the place of dreams.
Yet when deeply, thought of such
it is just how, for you is seemed.

Life is all too real for many
and then for others, not at all.
Like the hands upon, a ticking clock
movements, when wound
just time passing, on mantel or a wall.

What is born, all passes, in preprogrammed, provided time
like flowers seeded, planted earth.
All for another yet experience, in their time
incased in their own birth.