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Here lies a Man...{Memoirs of a sane Psychopath}
Here lies a Man...
Here I lay, Whereas the soil meets thy earth
Were I am still and immortalized in my eternal rest.
My remains are preserved within thy pretty lumber.
I do not feel the wind, nor the sun; or smell the
blossoms of bountiful plateaus.
My life is tranquil, tame and routine.
My kin has forgotten my touch,
my embrace; my warmth.
All I leave are the mere possessions I prized once awake,
now they are of no need, so they stay ageless;
My grasp is cold, my breath is of awkward debris—
my body decays to the constant attack of my very own companions;
they squirm, slime, tickle and devour my physical dwelling without apology,
for they too; must live.
My absence has no effect to the men of land
Grandfather time cares not as he forwards--my name becomes
distant, distorted;lost.
My company was unkind for my first decennary,
now wilted with the roots of ages, they are pleasant and delight me
in thy strangest fellowship.
No sorrow's, worries, anger or regrets where I lay--the smell of amber;
weeds, dead forest trees, countless winters,
sunsets and flaky generations of leaves give me—nothing.
the sweet laughter of child's play ignites my envy.
The gallant poise of a man's great walk; deters my mental vista.
The gentle kiss of one to another on thy brow; makes the most
sane part of me shake thy fertile dirt upon my domicile.
To relish of life's pleasurable confection for a day;
I would spend a century's labor asleep; dormant.Dead.
My frail body, limits my movements to naught;
an act so terrible, so vile, I curse the reaper of souls—
for I am without; element—
I lie once a man, a soul; of flesh,bones and heartbeat;
now--A memory of the earth.
As thy man walks past my home, he can heed
the warning etched on thy tombstone
"Here lies a Man—who mistook life for death.
And death for life"
-Marcovany Eugene (2009)
Writers Guild of America, East.
Here I lay, Whereas the soil meets thy earth
Were I am still and immortalized in my eternal rest.
My remains are preserved within thy pretty lumber.
I do not feel the wind, nor the sun; or smell the
blossoms of bountiful plateaus.
My life is tranquil, tame and routine.
My kin has forgotten my touch,
my embrace; my warmth.
All I leave are the mere possessions I prized once awake,
now they are of no need, so they stay ageless;
My grasp is cold, my breath is of awkward debris—
my body decays to the constant attack of my very own companions;
they squirm, slime, tickle and devour my physical dwelling without apology,
for they too; must live.
My absence has no effect to the men of land
Grandfather time cares not as he forwards--my name becomes
distant, distorted;lost.
My company was unkind for my first decennary,
now wilted with the roots of ages, they are pleasant and delight me
in thy strangest fellowship.
No sorrow's, worries, anger or regrets where I lay--the smell of amber;
weeds, dead forest trees, countless winters,
sunsets and flaky generations of leaves give me—nothing.
the sweet laughter of child's play ignites my envy.
The gallant poise of a man's great walk; deters my mental vista.
The gentle kiss of one to another on thy brow; makes the most
sane part of me shake thy fertile dirt upon my domicile.
To relish of life's pleasurable confection for a day;
I would spend a century's labor asleep; dormant.Dead.
My frail body, limits my movements to naught;
an act so terrible, so vile, I curse the reaper of souls—
for I am without; element—
I lie once a man, a soul; of flesh,bones and heartbeat;
now--A memory of the earth.
As thy man walks past my home, he can heed
the warning etched on thy tombstone
"Here lies a Man—who mistook life for death.
And death for life"
-Marcovany Eugene (2009)
Writers Guild of America, East.