In the end, all the same.
Although remembering your name,
eventually no one knows
the you that lived beneath your clothes.
They may see your charming smile,
your tender looks or cunning guile,
but they won’t have the faintest clue
of the authentic, inner you.
Perhaps we start out all the same;
so who’s the one that we should blame
when some turn into Phyllis Dillers
and others into serial killers?
Ghandi, Hitler, Bundy, and
the rest of us, by nature’s hand
instilled with sin or piety
in infinite variety.
But still, at end of life, we fall,
not so different after all.
At the very end of day,
returned to dust, we blow away.
The prompt word today is “finite.” This is a reblog of a poem I wrote two years ago.—