cold-blooded killer
life is a cold-blooded killer
from moment you're born
it stalks you --
eventually snuffs you out
with rest of humanity
not to mention, birds, weasels,
pigs, grandmothers, fleas, sweethearts,
mice, hawks, polar bears, salmon,
grocers, presidents, carpenters,
butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers
and other conglomerates of single cells
that managed an ambulatory form --
life kills all of us to least and last
no religion, philosophy, or belief will
save us from inevitable expiration --
meet life head on, and spit in its eye
with the exclamatory exhortation,
with ear to ear grin --
"Give me your best shot, I'm sure as hell
going to give you mine!"
vcp
15 December 2010
Comments
Shirley,
Shirley,
Please don't ever shut up.
Love,
Victor
Best shot. Indeed, Victor.
Best shot. Indeed, Victor.
We all have our individual and unique struggles, but let it not be said we went down without having fought the good fight.
It's strange how we act that out with one another. My battle, my victory is with the only thing I will ever truly own,..
*my life*.... Actually, the universe owns it.
A perfect poem to start my day. Thanks.
~A
"
Anna,
Anna,
The good fight is one that you win.
Love,
Victor
killeer
rage! Rage! against the dying of the light................scribbler
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A quote from a poem
Do not go gently into the night
rage, rage against the dying of the light................I'll try to look up title and author.Your poem reminded me of this............scribbler
I know the poem from which
I know the poem from which this come. It was written by Dylan Thomas:
I just couldn't figure the implication. Thanks,
V
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas