Everything I have ever held alive,
Has in my arms, in that embrace died,
Beyond sophisticated errs
Of philosophers' wanting cares,
Devised a great facade upon
That which I could not crowd along,
To witness and embrace the end
To lust for an emblazoned death,
A trial of melancholy cultivation
Failed by folly, conservation,
Attempts to push, create ahead
A road therewhich we breathe instead,
Falls short of what, inherently,
Is asked from birth of us to be,
Individual lives are shadowed by "Events,"
Smothered we are, beyond all pretense,
Asking what it means to "Be,"
There is no such thing as "Free."