The Withered Branches

People say look at the blue sky

how warm, how bright and such a high fly

People say look at the spring blossom

how the twisted petals under winter dew shimmers

People say count your blessings,

and wake up with a smile, scale all sorrow.

And yet, my mind begs to differ,

what about the withering branches ?

what about the animals that lay dead ? 

what about the destruction we headed to ? 

what about all those tears of dispair ? 

what about the people who fight alone, ?

what about them who got no one to talk to ?

what about the sad little things on our planet ? 

Do they not deserve a verse their own.

Beauty as Keats puts it, is quite pruned, 

pruned to thinking of narrow mind

Beauty is in fact quite meaningless, 

for everything is beautifulness.

even death is vibrant and colourful

Happiness and sorrow, nothing but terms

two sides of the same coin, twins of Twilight

One without other, is quite nothing,

and a life without both, is not something 

I try to put a beauty in them too, 

in those crisp broken branches, 

who lay retired after fulfilling their deeds, 

after a long straw of purifying the air,

their final life reaps.

In this lies glory, so as in all the others too,

for in death lies beauty, 

and happiness in sorrow.