Out on that unused playing field, just west of the park,
I heard a fellow talking to himself, a he ambled about
in increasingly larger circles whilst making hand gestures
and chewing on a leaf; the part I overheard went thusly,
“If the worst part of being dead is NOT in being gone,
then that would mean that the worst part of being alive
is NOT in being here.” He then began leaping into the air,
clicking his little heels and cried, “Oooh – I love it,
I love it; I do nearly almost love it.”
All that man can dream of
is somewhere already past.
No one dreams of freedom more,
or thinks of it less,
than the imprisoned.
As always, (and even today),
‘tis hard to follow your talent and be respectable…
(much less, successful.)
On his death bed, one fellow’s last words were,
“I ain’t Got no last words.”
J.
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