Life is but a blink on the eye of God.
A whisper for a moment on the changing winds of time.
It is filled with seasons of laughter and joy.
It comes sometimes on a smile: sometimes in the wince of pain.
Life is but a vapor in time; here for a second; then never to be seen again.
A child is born, yet another and another dies.
With the child come new cries - the old man on last breath sighs.
Life at times is beautiful, yet in other seasons it’s full of dread.
We come, we go and soon no one remains to remember the dead.
Too brief this thing called life, yet long in its enduring strife.
Condensed - oppressed, captured on last sighs undressed.
Nowhere to go; only left are we as dust to be gathered by the passing wind.
We smile, we frown, and we often weep.
Some forget the living, least alone remember the dead.
Such a shame, oh such a shame, I can’t even recall his name?
Here on the whisper he was, now on the wind is he no more…
Slain is he in his prime by the blade of life’s uncaring sword.
Enough said… enough said…
There was he who was once me…enough said…
He sleeps now, He sleeps evermore…gone now the strife of living.
Dead…Dead…Forever dead is he.
J. Allen Wilson © 11/8/2011