I have no mark to leave
Upon the surface of the Earth,
And would not want to do so even if I had.
I can no more remember
How to service any worth,
And would not dare pursue so even if I could.
I shall not covet life before
The certain face of death,
And will not suffer anyone who tells me that I must.
I am no more prepared to bear
The current taste of breath,
And will not aspire on beyond the scattering of dust.
We are not made to linger on
The canvass of the world,
And will not get to know the artist of the sun.
We can but hope our time
Does not cause anguish to the old,
And eventually rests its light upon the young.
I can still feel the air
Upon the surface of my skin,
But can no longer tell upon which part.
I have no wish to listen to
The service now begin,
But ironically I long for it to start.
I will no longer care for all
The certain facts of life,
But will honour all the feigning of disguise.
I shall not be able to endure
The current pace of grief,
And hopefully they’ll see this in my eyes.