For the long walk, lives by us,
And what we do, it's done.
No one can understand, or claim,
The things that we have done.
No matter young, or old,
Nor man, woman alike,
We all will go, in time.
And leave something behind.
And know, that every step,
Might be the last, to reach the door.
The one, that if you pass,
You shall not be. No more.
Might be a mile, or a hundred,
Might be enough, or not at all.
You might see it all, just walking,
Until you are no more.
No love, no hate, you'll carry,
It will be left behind,
No weight, no thoughts of sorrow,
No meaning of the blind.
And as it comes, it passes
As it forever did,
Just like the memories, you fade,
As if you would've hid.
Why must it be just...so abrupt
To reach your destination,
Why must it interrupt?
What shall you do with love unshared,
And words unspoken, on the step,
Will you, on your dying breath,
Be filled with resent and regret?
Or will you walk with pride and praise,
Your final and sweet loving step?
But that, will not be then decided.
It will be now.
The way we go, we write it now.
The thoughts, the life,
We're living while we are alive.
And if we sleep...
We will wake up,
Forever we are going.
And if we sleep...
We're in the dark,
Even if it's not showing.
YOU ARE READING
Through the veil ( Poetry )
PoesíaA volume of poems under work, a story told chaotic and backwards about the birth, death, life and intrigues of "a" or "the" God, and one small mortal who takes the trip to discover all in-between them.
