Death is Everything's Final Limit
It is the best hour of the day:
Everyone has gone to bed; and I am left alone with all my words
And the lamp is shining, in my solitary spot
And the stars are shining, outside the window
And the whole world seems at ease and peaceful.
The feeling of freedom seems boundless and beyond time.
It's all so delicious, that I fear sometimes I might just freeze in place here,
Arms on the table, with my head full of whimsy and half written ideas;
Enjoying the process far too much, to ever complete anything.
But then another idea always comes along, and pushes the one before it out,
So that I have to begin writing again;
Task that I hope will never end, until I am quite dead.
Then do with me what you will; I will be all emptied out by then, I hope
With only the star light to rush back in,
Into the vacuum that's left by my leaving:
Mors ultima linea rerum est.
I love the surrealism in this poem. There is something in the way you write that reminds me of the times when I started writing and everything seems to be interesting and intriguing all at the same time..
I think all of the creative people can relate. A fine write that expresses my sentiments in a way I wouldn't have found the words for. Thanks for the enjoyable read.
a runner who's been running all his life suddenly dies while running a race...people say "at least he died doing what he loved to do".... seems that's what you're saying here.....