There are nights I marvel at existence,
How much the field of depth can be pronounced,
How my mind seems so diverse in personalities,
And with the singing voice of Sleep a mere whisper,
I intently listen for her chorus.

I will die not knowing everything,
Leaving something undone,
Leaving some sentence unfinished.
An idea, a blink of an eye, casually missed,
But a momentary torment, none the less.

My work seems… No, not blocked,
But filled with insecurity.
Who am I to take away a man’s last day?
Who am I
To end his story at such a desired time?

It is the meaning that escapes me,
On nights like this,
Of the value of this marvelous existence.
Which can sometimes be found
In the telling of a simple man’s last days.

Published by: cynicalwordsmith

I am, by no means, a professional writer. I have no dreams of becoming such. I just enjoy writing in my very sparse free time, both poetry and short stories. If you enjoy any of my works in particular, feel free to tell me. I always enjoy the feedback.

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