The Writing on the Wall

Oh can it be, oh yes I see, the writing on the wall,

Three and sixty years ago it started after all.

It all must end; there is no doubt, that life ends way too quickly,

My day will come, I know not when; the end can be quite tricky. 

What have I done, who did I love, a question for the ages,

Looking back upon my life, meandering through the pages.

I tried to do, the best I could, and leave some small impression,

Husband, father, son and more, a tale of male expression.

My life is quite behind me now, and most I can’t remember,

Seems I may have often been more pretender than contender.

But as I write these lines of woe, a weary tale to ponder,

The reaper appears at my front door to carry me asunder. 

I’ll close my eyes, and never wake, death’s slumber overtakes me,

My last breath, when taken in, can’t possibly sustain me.

Please lay my body upon the pyre, and lite the fire beneath me,

I’ll quietly go into the night, and take my poetry with me. 

Ken Ferguson