that he had a rather plain
– yet pleasant – face, and
otherwise nondescript, except
for the way his glasses rested
– yes, even they rested –
on that peaceful face.
Too, that his suit looked proper and
who’s to say if he had or hadn’t worn
it before today?
The appearance of … happiness – or,
was is contentment? –
and serenity had no precedent,
that any could recall.
Yes, they all agreed. The undertaker
had none a wonderful job.
There was no hint of the familiar
haunted, harried appearance
Against the winds that blew the snow flakes
that, when crushed, made up the glaciers
of his continence.
The face (façade?) lied, and proclaimed of a saga played out upon this very stage!
As the final curtain falls, the protagonist –
stage light fading, and metaphoric fogs rolling over his lying, dying body –
in learning HOW to appreciate everything (beauty?) without regard to
and his chase, indeed the struggle,
made it hopeless that Regret could rule this moment.
But then, who’s to say?
They had all watched the play,
and now talked about
– and over – each facet, the scenes as
they remembered them.
Who’s superficial? Not I!
Know not the time
Nor the place.
Resolve to live without remorse,
slip away without regret,
and die without a grudge;
to pass the final portal happy:
Not to die,
but to have lived, loved, – and
Superficial? Folly? Perhaps.
But why not? If we cannot fool ourselves,
If we cannot love ourselves, then whom can we love?
(In death even?) …
I stand by my resolution.
When they gather for me,
maybe they won’t be without precedent.
Joe Girard ©