I look upon life,
A cloud shivers overhead, and fate begins to rain.
A dark cloud engulfs the sun, with dragon wings, it flaps away.
I imagine my deathbed,
Perhaps a rock, or gutter as my pillow
Newspaper, if those still sell, upon my frozen, broken form.
I do not drink, nor experiment with altered states,
But perhaps in the future, I would?
I wonder if broken bottles would accompany me?
Would I be found in a field, or resting upon an outside dustbin, leaking red and brown colours.
Would people notice I was no longer there?
Unimportant me, who once had a gift of gab,
Who once spoke, and wrote, and read, oh those glorious days and nights I read.
And yet, perhaps the world would cheer,
For it is the evil among us that the cameras do most acclaim.
And I imagine myself, cold, shaking, almost dead.
Clasping desperately for warmth. And coughing like the plague.
I look upon life, amid the clouds,
I look down upon myself, saintly, but not evil enough to live.
As around me, nations change their names, and languages disappear unto dust.
And I look upon myself, as the rain pours, and the hail hits my forehead.
I look upon the broken man in a gutter.
Not quite evil enough to flourish upon this earthen planet.
Too humble to fight dirty,
Too honest to steal from the poor.
And I look down upon the meek, as he inherits the earth,
As his unmarked grave eats his body,
And as the earth, he inherits, is tossed uncaringly upon him.
Six feet of earth, upon a man with no coffin.
It would mask the smell.
I look upon life.
I am young still,
I believe in doing good still,
And I imagine this future me,
Buried under the natural world's floor.
Sunlight, cures all things,
I utter, as the cloud passes by in my drifting, daydreaming mind.
You will not lie in an unmarked grave.
You will make something of life,
No matter its challenges,
Those who are evil will not have their ways.
And I wonder at my future self.
What is it I am expected to be,
To persevere past every peak,
To climb up from the crevice of death.
I am young still,
I have miles to go before I sleep,
Yet, with every day, as it passes, I have less.
The clock ticks, and makes an ungrateful noise.
And I look forward unto my future,
Across valleys, mountainous slopes.
The worst, seems quite clear,
A man too kind to survive this jungle world.
And yet, perhaps my innocence is not my death,
Perhaps those who love their fellow man have a place just as yet.
And maybe the meek inherit the earth,
And heaven as it circles us as though above.
And I speak, and air my voice.
I say unto the world, through my life,
This is not the way,
Nor the path unto life.
For, kindness, empathy, love.
This is not weakness, even if I fall upon my unmarked grave.
To steal or defraud is not the path to wealth,
Even if decades have helped the enemies of love.
For I was raised on love, and love I know.
And those who choose cruelty over love,
Will never those riches, ever know.
And yet, the night breeze, I sensed, it became a hurricane in the morning, my dream, in it as though truth itself, is to know that night breeze, as though in romance- to romance the mystery of the hidden truth. For I love the night breeze, which so few yet can sense.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Do not take from me my wit, nor the sarcasm of my life until my grave
Posted by Marc Evan Aupiais at 2:59 PM
Dad; Husband; Christian (Catholic); Irish. — News; Business; History; Civilizations; The Western World; Speech; Culture; Law. (Pronounced: Aw-Pea-Air.)
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