On Our Way to Being Dead

By Wil C. Fry, Oct. 15, 2001, 02:04 (Monday)

Copyright © 2001 by Wil C. Fry. All rights reserved.

With stress and trepidation, trembling,
He scratches his powdery head
To what end is all this leading
On our way to being dead?
Waking hours without order, in torture,
Torment his lonely, scaly soul
Midnight cigarettes and whispered prayers
Then memories begin to roll
Soft, tinkling childhood laughter
Too quickly begins to fade
And old gray wrinkled pain emerges
As the casket is being made
So fast, our hurried lives creep on
“Forever” was a twisted lie
Don’t be surprised that it’s meaningless
When you lie down and die

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