Life

We blink and it passes like a wind on a Summer's day
All about it is the stuff of time and friends and conflicts
The stuff of laughter and memory and sadness and so much more
Occasionally one wonders when it will end but tis not the stuff often thought
Until the day it ends for another and then one considers its value
What is a person anyway but flesh and blood and breath?
Why of such a precious thing is so little effort given, so lowly placed on the list?
I suppose it's the foolishness of self-absorption obtuse to the passing wind
I suppose it's the fearful negligence to face its certain end.