Death

This is a poem.

A withered rose
a rotten apple
has no beauty
has not taste.

A man who dies
you may mourn
for weeks or months
but he still lies.

The leaves still fall
the grass still blows
the bird still flies
the water flows
but the man still lies.

The world spins.
The rain still falls.
A child cries.
But he still lies.

The man has lost,
his purpose gone.

He worked for money,
not family of happiness.
He was lonely,
he won't be missed.