REQUIEM

At threescore and ten I began to die.

Oh, there’s nothing grim and deadly

That I see or sense a-stalking me,

But I hear footsteps close behind.

I’m not saddened by the knowledge.

I’m not wistful, yearning, lonely.

Regrets are few and trifling.

Yet, have I made a difference?

Has one atom of God’s creation

Been altered by my being here?

Was good or bad begotten

By my conception or my sojourn?

I’ve had a life of blessings,

Just small pains and burdens,

Mentioned but in passing,

Not meant to be complaining.

My past is frozen in my mind,

Hazy ghosts of those I’ve loved,

Countless pleasures, people, places,

And a few best left buried.

So, how will my scales balance?

I fear they’ll tip the wrong way.

I received much more than gave,

Anticipating my accounting.

Copyright 2012 Ken Ragan