Untitled 4

In time there would be nothing,

not of me not of anybody,

if that’s what life dared to promise us.

In truth I don’t care ’bout that,

the resigned state of pessimism,

call it reality of fact, I don’t care!

The great movement of living;

those Carpe Diem so few.

Poets, lovers, people all,

and forgotten.

Don’t label it irresponsiblity

because you’re afraid to experience.

Call it life, call it different,

just not yours.

In time I’ll be gone

With the rest of them too,

A collected bundle of bones, dust and ashes.

In truth I have loved

but of them very few

would I dare to summon-

to my bed at the end.


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