No sight so sad as that of a naughty child,“ he began, "especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?”

“They go to hell,” was my ready and orthodox answer.

“And what is hell? Can you tell me that?”

“A pit full of fire.”

“And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?”

“No, sir.”

“What must you do to avoid it?”

I deliberated a moment: my answer, when it did come was objectionable: “I must keep in good health and not die.

—  Charlotte Brontë (Jane Eyre)

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So much is changing;

Your once good friends become distant bodies in the mist,

That you re-equant with each year like a visit to an old home

To feed your nostalgic appetite.

But that’s apart of the repeated rhythm of time, I guess.

And sadly, you cannot stop it’s mysterious nature.

We are deer trapped in the train tracks as it continues on it’s way.

As the meadows continue their dance,

And the leaves continue their fall,

And as the clouds continue their salted cries,

I too continue my journey to rest 72 inches below your heels.

It makes you think what anything is for…

…Then I remember…

We must not live for own endearment,

But for the new set of vibrant daises atop a hill of an old and ancient Earth.