In passing on
I fear not – the shadows, the blackness of death
nor the scythe, in the hands of the Grim Reaper.
What I do fear is the loss of Life’s, breath
as days linger on, dragging me, reluctantly, ever deeper
into the depths of emptiness, as Life, retreats.
She, leaves me on my own, all alone, seldom meets
with me, on the solid ground of equality,
leaving me to feel that my life is but frivolity.
Many times, I have come before St Peter’s gate.
Arm wrestling with the Grim Reaper, seems, my fate.
Death may be kinder, then what you, sometimes, state.
I realize that among men, - poorly – me you do rate
and all I am, who I am – against you, do grate.
I do wonder ?, if I am truly – for you an aggravation
or is all I have experienced, figments of my imagination ?
Is it possible you could rise above ?
With me, find true love ?
DREAM ON FOOLISH BOY !
B. J. “A” 2
January 30th 2009