The Hope of the Living
The hope of the living
None would hope, like a destitute, by the roadside to rot,
With their eyes and other vitals, by the vultures pecked out,
Oozing a cocktail of body fluids, unsightly like yellowy snot,
And their putrid stench pervading the air, around and about.
But, most would hope, though with a morbid fear of the end,
That a garland at least, or an array of floral comeliness,
Would from an acquaintance, a relative, or a good friend,
Adorn the dark envelope, of their cold and silent loneliness.
That, dark clouds of grief; torrents of tears, their signage,
Would thicken the air with anguish, as the news is broken,
That their journey had ended, if even with a high mileage,
And threnodies would be sung; words of their good spoken.
That, as the wreath(s), though freshly made, goes withering;
Memories of them, slowly, yet surely, goes into the obscure,
That of their good, even the winds would go on whispering,
As weeping usher their metamorphosis into organic manure.
Yet, most by their lives, do not on any place such a burden,
Or, on the elements, tales of good to convey throughout time.
Positive impacts, as engravings on steel quenched to harden,
We all must first have on people, to justify such hope, as a prime!
Oct. 1, 2017
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