Eulogy on a Blank Canvas

I was born; that’s not quite news,
nor is the sequence of events
that followed closely there behind
of much import, or consequence:

like Isaac, most of my short life
falls into sets of seven years,
some uphill climbs, some downhill coasts,
some trouble shifting between gears.

The details need not be disclosed;
suffice to say, I learned
the difference between being hot
enough to cook, melt, fry or burn.

What grave errors in judgment!
What missteps, what great falls!
What joy in fleeting, desperate moments!
Well, to sum it all:

I’ve done what I’ve done, good or bad,
and often wasted time;
I’ve squandered talents given me
and stumbled, laughed and whined.

They say that it’s the squeaky gear
who gets the lion’s share of grease;
I’ve been both rusty and well-oiled,
and found in neither full release.

Accomplishments? Not much of note.
It seems like a great nothing
that seemed important at the time,
or might amount to something.

I write, and sing, and listen to
the universe as best I can;
where books and music lead me
often I don’t understand

but those who love me see the nothing
that I’ve been and done
as important; worth recalling
when my race is run.

11 May 2005

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