Engrained on your face are paths
and rivers from that vineyard
you used to play in till you grew old
enough to lend a hand if you put
your cigarette down long enough
to grab a basket. Picking grapes
was never your calling, but then again
a life cut too short wasn’t either.
-I don’t know you. I don’t know what
your life meant, even to you. We’re all dying
to figure you out, scrambling to give
meaning to a dead man’s words.
But as any wise poet knows:
“This story has no point but stillness itself…”