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A Rhapsody in Prose
In the ground
under this etched marble stone;
lies withered old bones
dried out, broken, brittle and worn;
from that adversary called time.
As the bones turn to dust
and memories fade into oblivion
that etched marble stone
is all that is left of a life lived poorly.
Even a life lived not well
is better then to have not lived at all.
But once that etched marble stone
crumbles and fades from time’s
relentless tick tock tick;
It’s as if those bones
never existed at all.
If those bones don’t exist
then that life spent poorly;
Was no life at all
__________________
Nature weeps, the devil sings
at man’s greed and pride
and what it brings
Just lots of useless
little things…
God is Dead; He died yesterday from Nothing...
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