The painful part,
the bitterest of life’s futility,
is that we each have so little time
to weave in any meaningful ways
a tapestry of rich experience,
of wisdom that will stay behind
when we are gone,
in the minds and hearts
of those we’ve loved, and made.

Trust me when I tell you
it gets worse and worse
the nearer you come to that
ultimate drop
where all of us must crash and break
like waves on rocky shores
and finally step off the ultimate edge.

It is worse as time runs out,
as chaos nears;
you try and catch up
to all that you should have made
and said
and demanded of yourself
when final end
was still far enough away
for you to take your time.

But that’s now gone. There’s nothing left
but a final rush of frantic doing
before the wearing out of blood
and bone
and muscle
makes continuation end
and there’s no choice except acceptance
of a grave, or perhaps a final cleansing fire
to wipe away all doubts and fears.

As for myself,
I scurry just as fast as everyone.
Still I run, even when
I sit back and realize
the life I have already lived,
the people I have loved,
all are good;
but I must continue on,
adding and adding
to what I have already done,
because
as much as we can possibly gather,
never will it be enough.