What does a man do
On his very last day?
Does he call his best friend,
to lie a hello?
Does he open a drink,
for drunken last breaths?
Does he hug his children,
and say they were best?
Does he hide in a cellar,
just waiting for Death's knock?
Does he write a few things,
hints and advice?
Does he find those who wronged him,
and take them along?
The wise man will sit there,
like there's nothing wrong.
He ponders his days,
things once, things past,
holds his love dearly,
sweet, beautiful love,
giving him hope,
that there is this 'above',
though pain creeps in,
he smiles yet still,
life plays like a record,
1941-1992,
But yet, 1941 is not where it had begun,
He remembers it clear from 1947,
And he has forgotten much from the last 3 years,
but what he did, he does not fear,
he accepts what he's done, laughs a good laugh,
forgetting what he'd do, if given a second path,
So this my friends, may I say it clear,
Do not stare long at that first year,
and do not think much of that last,
for what was done is done, and all in that dash.
Written two years ago...