07-28-2014, 07:35 PM
Edit 1.0
Each day is the end of journey begun when
a father's soaked 'kerchief fell soft to the floor.
Not for us the crack of the starting pistol
or tumultuous baying of craning-necked crowds.
We are born with the screams of creature creation
ringing out stridently, plangently loud.
The race never stirs us, nor prods us to triumph;
for all that we ask is the chase must go on.
Through anguish and hopelessness, pain and derision,
or victory, glory, high office and wealth,
the route that we travel leads all to that wisdom
sufficient to take us as far as it can.
We measure our lives in the counting of hours
as though marks on the clock-face meant more than time.
Our milestones, our mountains, our barriers broken
we leave far behind as the road reels and writhes.
No scratches on tombstones describe what a life means
but clearly and coldly say, “ He took this long.”
Each day ends the race that we all try to loose;
hoping that seconds will ever extend.
Some look to explain our preposterous progress
that at once is quintessence and yet our set end.
Walk slowly, my friends, on the edge of existence;
falling is final, ‘cept to ask….is that all?
Original
Each day ends the race that we all try to loose;
hoping that seconds will ever extend.
Some look to explain our preposterous progress
that at once is quintessence and yet our set end.
Walk slowly, my friends, on the edge of existence;
falling is final, ‘cept to ask….is that all?
Each day is the end of a unique journey
begun as a 'kerchief, tear soaked, hits the ground.
Not for us the crack of the starting pistol
or tumultuous baying of craning-necked crowds.
We are born with the screams of creature creation
ringing out plaintively, plangently loud.
The race never stirs us, nor prods us to triumph;
for all that we ask is the chase must go on.
Through anguish and hopelessness, pain and derision,
or victory, glory, high office and wealth,
the route that we travel leads all to that wisdom
sufficient to take us as far as it can.
We measure our lives in the counting of hours
as though marks on the clock-face meant more than time.
Our milestones, our mountains, our barriers broken
we leave far behind as the route writhes and reels.
No scratches on tombstones describe what a life means
but clearly and coldly say, “ He took this long.”
Each day ends the race that we all try to loose;
hoping that seconds will ever extend.
Some look to explain our preposterous progress
that at once is quintessence and yet our set end.
Walk slowly, my friends, on the edge of existence;
falling is final, ‘cept to ask….is that all?
Each day is the end of journey begun when
a father's soaked 'kerchief fell soft to the floor.
Not for us the crack of the starting pistol
or tumultuous baying of craning-necked crowds.
We are born with the screams of creature creation
ringing out stridently, plangently loud.
The race never stirs us, nor prods us to triumph;
for all that we ask is the chase must go on.
Through anguish and hopelessness, pain and derision,
or victory, glory, high office and wealth,
the route that we travel leads all to that wisdom
sufficient to take us as far as it can.
We measure our lives in the counting of hours
as though marks on the clock-face meant more than time.
Our milestones, our mountains, our barriers broken
we leave far behind as the road reels and writhes.
No scratches on tombstones describe what a life means
but clearly and coldly say, “ He took this long.”
Each day ends the race that we all try to loose;
hoping that seconds will ever extend.
Some look to explain our preposterous progress
that at once is quintessence and yet our set end.
Walk slowly, my friends, on the edge of existence;
falling is final, ‘cept to ask….is that all?
Original
Each day ends the race that we all try to loose;
hoping that seconds will ever extend.
Some look to explain our preposterous progress
that at once is quintessence and yet our set end.
Walk slowly, my friends, on the edge of existence;
falling is final, ‘cept to ask….is that all?
Each day is the end of a unique journey
begun as a 'kerchief, tear soaked, hits the ground.
Not for us the crack of the starting pistol
or tumultuous baying of craning-necked crowds.
We are born with the screams of creature creation
ringing out plaintively, plangently loud.
The race never stirs us, nor prods us to triumph;
for all that we ask is the chase must go on.
Through anguish and hopelessness, pain and derision,
or victory, glory, high office and wealth,
the route that we travel leads all to that wisdom
sufficient to take us as far as it can.
We measure our lives in the counting of hours
as though marks on the clock-face meant more than time.
Our milestones, our mountains, our barriers broken
we leave far behind as the route writhes and reels.
No scratches on tombstones describe what a life means
but clearly and coldly say, “ He took this long.”
Each day ends the race that we all try to loose;
hoping that seconds will ever extend.
Some look to explain our preposterous progress
that at once is quintessence and yet our set end.
Walk slowly, my friends, on the edge of existence;
falling is final, ‘cept to ask….is that all?