Death on the wind

people kill things everyday
from love to idle times.
and some things die anyway
from life to idle minds.
it couldn't really hurt to die
no more that it hurts to live.
the people left always cry
when there's nothing left to give.
death is just the final sleep
as dust to dirt we go.
in little piles,that dirt we sweep
and the wind outside still blows.
and the wind kills time itself,
it eats away this earth
and everything once known as wealth
the wind will turn to dirt.
to know death is to know the wind
that whispers through the trees,
and death is just another friend
blowin in the breeze.