70

As I enter the decade of death

and plan for endless dreamless sleep

certain as Earth turning from light to night

I recall the spiritual seasons of my life:

hope exploding from an atmospheric prism

joy blazing through the gold lens of a star

adventure adrift with leaves on the wind

crystallized languor frozen in place

despite flickering memoirs of bliss

like sparkling sunshine through breaks

in a cloud-crowded sky of indigo blue

my mind rewinds moments of pain

as if highlights from a constant cinema

featuring every being I have known

in need, love, abuse, joy, and sorrow--

tragicomedy worthy of a reckless writer

aware now of each heartbeat

and wondering which will be my last

I mourn the loss of life in brain and brawn

but mostly bemoan what might have been

had I the prudence to expect events

occurring around the next twist or turn

events that make all the difference

for that extraordinary chance to exist

but regret is a poison potion

that lowers the view below the horizon

and prevents a vision of goodness

a revelation too often lost in fancy

for I must know that as a mere man

I can no more change my story

than stop the stretch of shadows

draping the angles off a redwood tree

and my meager human existence

for all its erratic blinking in the dark

is meaningless in the cosmoscape

but for any benefit I have bestowed

for the good of other living things--

fellow mortals who dwelt with me

on this grand sphere for blips in time

and finally disappeared in the dust

Poem by Jack Forge.  Read Jack's other writing and connect with him at Smashwords.