And the path he left behind,
was as vast the he skies he looked at,
every footprint a cloud- white and soft.
The circle of life- but the line beneath the pen,
never overlaps, nor joins into one.
Regardless of these all-
the times hold a power mighty and strong,
erasing the sand from the deepest nook,
hiding the tree at the plainest look.
It bowed- in respect or despair,
to a land stretching equal to the sky,
for who shall look forward,
to the demise of that bitter brown.
Lost were the blue of the skies,
lost were the earth of the brown,
forgotten into a history of naughts.
forgotten by the man who should not.
For when he did forget, the path he left behind,
time could only ease with such deletion,
since a sky only remains blue,
when crystals and clouds are made and followed.