poem

When your lying on your death bed

Atop stacks of gold piled high

Will you care whats beneath you

Or where your priorities lie

When all that's behind you

Lays buried in snow

And all that's in front

Is black and unknown.

Who's hand will you hold

Not the piles of gold.

Not the weeds in the garden

Or flowers in the snow.

The hand that you seek

will be too broken to show

Crying somewhere lonely

Deep in the acid soil

For which you sowed.

Don't let what's important

Whither black and grow cold

Lest the eve's final moments

Leeks acid from their seeds.

And the great size of your heart

Which I know to exist

Dies bitter and scared

Unloved and unaware.