What is the measure of one’s life?
In the still moments where alone I sit
writing out the words that play
along the horizon of my mind
darting to and fro
seemingly solid at once
then becoming ghosts the next
whispers that speak in the dark
that have no meaning
as I try to grasp what to do
my writing is weak
my poetry is nonsense
but the words taunt
they jump about,
just out of reach
the feelings are raw
how do I measure my life,
by what I do,
or what I don’t do?
Is it worth the effort
or the critique of a thousand voices
that all yell and scream.
Life is measured in the seconds and minutes
in the hours of the day
in the seasons as they change
in watching the summer fade
and falls colors drop away
as winter winds blow them around
down empty streets
where lovers clasp each other tightly
holding themselves against the cold
of their own feelings and doubts.
What is the measure of my own life?
What will I leave behind to be read
and thought about?