1
A child asks me, "Is there life after death?"
I wish I had an answer that would not crush him infinitely,
But I can't bring myself you say, "Yes!"
He is so ignorant, so empty of knowledge happily,
And I'm so filled with envy.
I am unsure, that is the curse I bare,
At least with a definite leaning to fact or faith,
Onward may one go, but I am stuck at a crossroads
Is it real? Is what's real good?
My mortal mind can never be sure
In the end I will know,
I cannot go on until the end when I cannot.
From what I've seen,
Not a lot but enough to question,
I do not know, yet my mind is keen,
If I don't choose, from both I face rejection.
What are we,
Fact, or fiction?
That is the question.
What are we?
2
In the beginning, god created the heavens and the earth,
A vile creation, abandoned long ago by the Lord.
The place which so violently ripped apart with all mortal hurt,
Our blood and guts hang out for ridicule of our gore.
The soft green flesh of the world, eaten off by humanity,
It reveals the cold stone skeleton with flesh all gone;
It smells of cold black death from years before we.
We roam the dry barren wasteland, walking on earth-bone.
See our half-life is also merely a half-death,
Be what we can, but ourselves we should always stay.
Whether, we succeed, fail, wither, prevail,
It is beautiful that dream in the night, of better days.
Whether we are divided with many around us,
For with others then we may share,
Or united with none in sight of us,
With ourselves we may stare to the empty universe
Go forth into the abyss, singing a human verse.
3
Before I go, I cannot sleep
Until I leave myself painted on everyone I know
And all the paper is writ upon by me,
telling my story forevermore and completely so.
I will never leave a verse within myself,
Expel every brilliant word from my head;
So that I may one day be taken from a dusty bookshelf
Long after I am dead.
Whatever we do in the moment is nothing,
But not to us.
Whatever we create in the moment is everything,
But not to us.
It is you to me,
And me to you,
And the world to come,
If stay us true.
We are all gods when we create.
4
So this be it,
My final verse to be writ;
Nothing left to be said,
Only a song of myself to be read.
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