Color flows from their tips like dew from a rose,
Falling until the last drip is dry.
Yet, what is their thereafter?
Is it the mark they make on others?
Or is it the dry, decayed color stained
Material that remains attached to the being,
Rotting with time and exhausting with every contact to air.
The utensil doesn’t stand alone;
However, the art gradually dies as well.
It loses its vibrancy; the vivacity;
The very quality of attractiveness.
Thus, as one and their maker cease to exist,
Are our creations everlasting?
Do they float like a bird in the wind across the Earth;
Like a song and its sound?
Memories always exist, regardless of life;
Time always remembers to continue on.
Thus, fret not ye creators of beauty.
Your creativity will flourish after death,
Shaping the Earth with all of its depth.
Society will not fret,
Woes will not shake,
Everything will continue; everlasting.
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Feel free to add whatever you like! I like to think of language as a form of poetry, expressing the right to free speech and embracing individuality. However, please do not be disrespectful.