Meant to be?

Was it meant to be?
or rather did it come to pass
by its lonesome?
seamlessly showing
inside the bosom
of the igniters

as the life ends
so the day begins
as the whippoorwill sings
its continues song
she fly's away with grace
perched in the green
eyes of the child
so fresh
un-tainted

brutal reality
wont you please me?
take my hand and lead
fallowing the yellow brick road
through sticks of stone
deteriorating leaves of fallen trees
whisper images
in my impressionable mind

burning questions
put not to rest by answer
only sparked with assumption
the uselessness that consumes
even the smallest ideals
based on sweat of brow
the labor of the vain
and the remains
of the slain.