Ephermeral
as sands of time;
Agnostiactic, bent to rhyme
With other lines by other men;
Cursed by a vague, exorbitant pen.
My life runs out a worthless curse:
A hand-tooled leather empty purse
Which I am cursed to hold unknowing
Within a whirl-wind knowing, knowing
Of its emptiness
Be pitiless.
I could be more were I not less.
I will be more than nothingness
I fill much more than vacuum space.
I am the living human race.
Be mine the very course to mark.
Be mine the severity of lark.
Less ephemeral than sands of time;
More physical than worthless rhyme;
I am what I have hopes to be.
I am, and shall always be.
A bag of bones...
Disposed bag of bones.
But these thoughts live on.
These issues we'll never address, I could be more were I not less.
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