I’ve been thinking about how one can fully understand the movement of life. How it goes unnoticed to most, slowly killing us. It should hurt, shouldn’t it? A constant moving pain that will eventually lead to some crazy hallucinogenic state of mind and you become the past. In a ball of flaming glory you could go out, and some do. Hopefully me too! Even though I know, it won’t mean a thing! because in the end it keeps going. And you become what’s gone.

I believe many people fear this. This ending of such. Some great men/women feared it. And they decided to be remembered but ultimately in the end, their end, nothing really changes. On the big scale of things they’ve contributed nothing, some of the greatest people you know, absolutely worthless. How can that be?

Because it is.

I don’t know a single thing

no rhymes to fill the meter,
no meter to grind along,
no grind to fuel the intentions,
no intentions to prolong.

the poetic prose
of the defeated and the broken,
the longing, the brave,
and the soft-spoken.

This is a tribute to the greats,
The ones who we really rate,
We know we're not all saints,
Like blessed Mr. Mahatma,
Or now Saint Teresa,
This is a tribute to our greats,
Normal heroes we all rate,
Like police and fire brigades,
Who protect us from troubled days,
We rate volunteers and 'the nurse',
Without them, life would be worse,
Folk like them make life a better place,
A tribute to our mere human greats!

Is for ventriloquist,
Hitting marks I didn't know exist
Id
I dummy.
S'like comparing paper to cedar trees
You seemed to've stumped me.
Fist bump V!
^-^