Droppings of a tired sentience;
So much inside, so little to say.
When it's all run its course,
There's just not much to say.
You turn the crank
And the same song pours out.
Time ages the words
Even as it ferments wine,
But the wine becomes vinegar,
And you come to sicken at its bouquet:
Does anything remain sacred
After you turn it over in your head,
Dissect and scrutinize it?
There's something magic in a melody,
Something fleeting and unreal, yet
My favorite pieces are larger than life,
My life in particular,
Mine with neither joy nor sorrow,
Neither hate, nor love.
My life cannot be called Monument,
But only Decoration,
But then, how many monuments ever learn to smile?
No, I will probably never shake this world,
But at least, let me come to love it,
Marvel at its secrets,
Drink of a few of its finest pleasures,
Live long and die able to say with no false cheer:
"Mine was a good life."
George Chadderdon © 1995