Pretend we will not meet again on some bright future shore;
once they are gone, the things we love are gone forever more.
But then again, there is no me to miss them when they go;
I likewise will just disappear at some point, even though
I’d like to think eternal thoughts, and in some future, know
the secrets of the universe, and say, “I told you so.”
My energy may linger on beyond this mortal coil,
but there is nothing past the grave except some worms and soil.
Quite honestly, that is enough; one life is enough time
to figure out just who I am. The pressure is sublime,
but keeps me honest, truth be told, and there’s some good in that.
More, and I’d be self-satisfied, and grow lazy and fat.
What would you do with endless time, nothing to figure out?
Not much more than we’re doing now, of that there is no doubt.
23 APR 2025
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