Sunday, November 9, 2008

The Last Heir

I close with fumbling fingers
The crypt of my fathers
Some remnant of their presence lingers

The door is crumbling and heavy
Age is a burden all must shoulder
Save a few who embrace
Their death laughing

Their laughter dying
On the lips of their mourners
Or reverberate in the singing Stones

I am the last and the first
I rush to IT
The glory of my life in its conclusion
Like the blush of a sunset in the twilight

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