A message to my grandfather years after his death |
Ground that tickles my feet and scratches my ankles I walk to your spot but dare not have a seat. I think of your laugh, love and sacrifice to many, wondering how one lives life so full with undying love. Somehow we weren't granted that gift of life so sacred and instead were left to cope, helpless and gutted. Thus, we must go out and chase down a life we want to live, but none of us could, could survive the race. I came close to the last line where the beginnings end, but I couldn't quite reach the top; perhaps I'll be fine. I meander, though, and I see those who were eliminated before they even began, and I should thank God it wasn't me. And there were those who reached the finish line in good time, accomplishing things I'll never know, things that for me won't be matched. We dare not stare death in the eye unless we've lost our minds, a brave cowardice in its right, maybe hoping death is nigh. Memorials lay waste to our useless troubles, duties done in vain, lives hopelessly lost and many endeavors gone sour. We need think not of it, they say of reaching that end, and they go on to say it's the means, not the ends, and they're on their way. But then those that gather to break away and transcend the human blight will say "When it comes to dying, I'd rather." Of course, not many are able to drop out of the race, as we discover a way out or a way to become stable. So we live life a caprice, wanting one to grant us peace, hoping to join you as you'll put our minds to ease. I dare not to think of you saying to go on. go on as a means of sustaining us, for surviving alone is impossible to do. The end, though, is a time of joy, and we gather 'round once again to hear a good story told in your tongue, clever and coy. Now I sit with death upon my lap, turning over our nature in my mind, not wanting to proceed and hoping my life was simply God's mishap. |