The Eternal Miracle of a Poet

Isn't it so poetic 

that we live and then we die? 

we strive for happiness

and a reason why? 

yet when times are joyful 

in one single moment

they can turn dark 

and then from out of nowhere 

the darkness turns into light

from just a single spark  

isn't it ironic that music is unseen? 

and our hearing notes on deaf ears

our emotions gifting tears

and thus the beauty of the seasons 

as we look out of the window fair

to see the blurs of the great oak tree

that leave nothing but branches bare

walking up the path so frail 

wondering where our lives have gone? 

wandering where all the poet's lines end up? 

and if we'll leave our poetic songs?