The pimp asked in his unassuming tone,
‘How was life for me?’ Oh just let us see—
if I’d been simply made, of brass or stone,
I would not mind about Death’s perch on me.
Yet I was flesh and for free reign I yearned.
I dreamt, like the smooth waves on a rough sea,
to charm Death’s hand, to break his chain, to burn
as the sun and teach his callous hold on me
Life’s truth; a spirit is—not flesh not bone
not brass not stone—but miracle! that I am me—
But that which lacks matter cannot be learned
till we dust the coffin or scatter from the urn—
and while we miss this light, eternity
does pass, high on gas—and we? the dead? Gone.
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