Death Upon My Lap

Ground that tickles my feet
and scratches my ankles
I walk to your spot
but dare not have a seat.

I think of your laugh, love
and sacrifice to many,
wondering how one lives
life so full with undying love.

Somehow we weren't granted
that gift of life so sacred
and instead were left to
cope, helpless and gutted.

Thus, we must go out and chase
down a life we want to
live, but none of us could,
could survive the race.

I came close to the last line
where the beginnings end,
but I couldn't quite reach
the top; perhaps I'll be fine.

I meander, though, and I see
those who were eliminated
before they even began, and
I should thank God it wasn't me.

And there were those who reached
the finish line in good time,
accomplishing things I'll never know,
things that for me won't be matched.

We dare not stare death in the eye
unless we've lost our minds,
a brave cowardice in its right,
maybe hoping death is nigh.

Memorials lay waste to our
useless troubles, duties done
in vain, lives hopelessly lost
and many endeavors gone sour.

We need think not of it, they
say of reaching that end,
and they go on to say it's
the means, not the ends, and they're on their way.

But then those that gather
to break away and transcend
the human blight will say
"When it comes to dying, I'd rather."

Of course, not many are able
to drop out of the race,
as we discover a way out
or a way to become stable.

So we live life a caprice,
wanting one to grant us
peace, hoping to join you
as you'll put our minds to ease.

I dare not to think of you
saying to go on. go on as
a means of sustaining us,
for surviving alone is impossible to do.

The end, though, is a time of joy,
and we gather 'round once
again to hear a good story
told in your tongue, clever and coy.

Now I sit with death upon my lap,
turning over our nature in my mind,
not wanting to proceed and
hoping my life was simply God's mishap.