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Poem

I weep for those tortured and misguided souls
    Who in waste take pilfered solace from above.
And ply a trade in cloddishness to avoid the toll
    That Death demands with one last final shove.

Like some trifling insect aroused to an open flame
    Stumbling merrily with foolish talk of added life...
Where groveling and good attendance gives claim
    To a childish existence free from want and strife.

I go to my death with no such ignorant burbling
    With the desolation of the grave my only friend.
I go now... to a dark place with the vultures circling
    With no demands on an unloving Universe to expend.

Death holds no mystery to those of us untainted
    By the weekly offerings of those who daily stray.
And no amount of prostrating will preserve the sainted
    With no Angels to voice their serenades.

Let a vacuous Universe now embrace this gift
    Snatching my molecules for selfish inclination.
With my mind and withered atoms set adrift...
    Appeasing the galaxy and bolster some cosmic variation.

So betroth to your illusions on this melancholic affair
    And propitiate a nothingness to haunt your shackled soul.
For if there was a God on high who be both just and fair...
    My Buffalo Bills would have won a Super Bowl.*

                                The End

*Some people are mad at God for the silliest reasons.

*Follow my cartoon on Webtoon Bob's Your uncle.

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