Pendragon
02-15-2009, 03:08 PM
Lifesong III
He borrowed ink and he borrowed paper,
He spilled the words like blood upon the page,
He wrote of how life is but a passing vapor,
A flower blooms in spring but all too soon fades
The flotsam and jetsam in a whirling ocean
Of faces and bodies too numerous to count—
Lends credence to the pessimistic notion,
That the end is the end, afterlife becomes doubt
A quiet grave in a groaning grove of oaks,
Eloquent lines engraved in marble stone
Read at length by visitors and folks
That will not let me rest for long alone…
God it is said made all men equal:
But Death does that—the question becomes the sequel…
Pendragon
© Sunday, February 15, 2009
He borrowed ink and he borrowed paper,
He spilled the words like blood upon the page,
He wrote of how life is but a passing vapor,
A flower blooms in spring but all too soon fades
The flotsam and jetsam in a whirling ocean
Of faces and bodies too numerous to count—
Lends credence to the pessimistic notion,
That the end is the end, afterlife becomes doubt
A quiet grave in a groaning grove of oaks,
Eloquent lines engraved in marble stone
Read at length by visitors and folks
That will not let me rest for long alone…
God it is said made all men equal:
But Death does that—the question becomes the sequel…
Pendragon
© Sunday, February 15, 2009