The Abyss of Time's Canyon

Perhaps time will smooth the rough edges Memory soften the toughness of his words But now they must wrap him in moment’s lie Bathe him in a flow of moistened myths Will any speak of who he really was Chuckle at his insensitivity Mask the folly of his arrogance Tickle the timber of his humility Will they dabble in theories of life’s meaning Standing on the abyss of time’s canyon Or focus on the meaning of his life His presence, his laughter, his sharp wittiness We know he would not care for flowers or bagpipes Would tolerate quiet sadness Perhaps an unintentional chuckle At a whispered one liner He would not care for too many prayers Would love those “remember that time” stories For they let him find a way to say farewell Knowing that he left you all a piece of his self