The Great Muse

When I should die soon
I’d look out windows
saying cryptic shit
of beauty and death
of life and wonder.
Others would marvel
to know what kindles
such inspirations
no young hearts find.
But there’s no magic.

No deep mystery.
Death is the great muse
stranger to us all
and kindred of hope
All walks of all kinds
quiet by its song:
“If you seek what lasts…
even this shall pass.”
Strange—what fades from view
When I should die soon.