The real bliss

You're a tree, green, thick and tall, 

blooming in the spring shredding in the fall,

nurtured by the breeze beaten by the storm, 

did they cut you short or did they give you form?

You're a rock, a rigid stubborn one, 

weathering in the rain shining in the sun,

stepped by the paws pressed in the claws, 

did they make you unique by giving you those flaws?

Just because they shape you, would you live along? 

Would the tree not die if the wind was strong?

Wouldn't the rock in a million years become sand? 

What if you're dying slow and you never understand?

Where is the line between the living and the dead? 

Would you not die even if you are overfed? 

What about the snake hiss, is it asking you to kiss? 

If life is such a pain, isn't death the real bliss?