“Who will stay and read my words?
When death is knocking at my door?
Will you leave like passing birds?
Or help me walk the broken floor?”
A man like me once said this line,
with a horrid face, he almost cry.
My entire life, I was nice and kind.
Until the day he finally died.
And looking quietly among the grave.
More than a man had died that day.
Not all his words were kept and saved.
They stay with him beneath the clay.
Like God I want to raise the dead.
For a few more days with a passing friend.
To say the words I wish I said.
And try to see them to the end.
But standing by the grave I see.
A time line to a man from child.
And someday soon it will be me.
I’ll see him on the while.
Copyright © January 4th 2002 Joseph Michael Egan