life

there comes a day we mostly fear,
the one that’s dreadful and unclear,
one day we finish to exist – 
that’s on the list

when inevitably it comes
there’ll be no orchestra and drums,
and we’re not sure of afterlife, 
if we survive

so when we end up, will there be
someone who cares to disagree
that all we’ve done will disappear,
noone to hear?

will they be framing our halls
will they hang posters on the walls 
and a museum of our past
be there to last?

or will the wallpapers be torn,
demolished walls to never mourn
and turned in office blocks instead,
when we’ll be dead?

when we hold time with bare hands,
it burns the skin, and skin expands, 
and we are able to contain
both past and pain

so through the bruises hope we can
preserve the memory of man,
of every soul who did the things
that touched the strings

and since it’s always not too late, 
we still can treasure and create,
so when we’re done, someone is there
to save and share