Journal of Life Andrew Dudewicz Atop a mighty desk, I sit, Pages filled to the brim with Wit; What is inside you cannot touch, For I am above all nonesuch. People, Ideas—I see them, As it is through them I become Alive, but that is not quite true; I have a Soul, but not like you. Tis true I refuse to perish, Yet there are those that I cherish; I clasp Covered arms around us, To shelter from Ozymandias. To forget, or be forgotten, Which is worse, life misbegotten, I staunch the bleeding in your mind, Of Memories, else lost to time. When your pencil tip pirouettes, Across my pale pages, a Duet, Yet I am overcome by grief, Ephemeral thoughts like gay thieves. After you, there’ll be another, And though you were like my brother, Slip past the surly bonds of Earth, I will treasure your golden words. War, Revolution, Repression, I have laid bare all transgression, In all of human history, Yet not one man has outlived me. Death lurks, stalks before it enshrouds, Yet to Death I say, be not proud! For I’m the bulwark to your Reign Of Terror. I am King of Kings! Oh, Humanity!—I do plead, Like lofty Lady Liberty, Still Life 2020
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