Last Words

No breath

can be retrieved

nor word

unsaid

nor sigh nor cry

unbled, unshed.

And breathing has a measure,

a few scant years' supply,

no more, to measure by

before silence returns

and we

the stuff of stars

disincarnate.

There is no certain saying

we'll return,

no cause

to think we'll last

our molten sling-shot fling

with the sun's radiant blast.

We skip across the night

like meteors

sizzling and fleet

one-hit wonders

who scarcely learn to shine

before we fade.

So short of breath

yet profligate

we squander

our inheritence

as though we have

an infinite supply.

How many lungfuls

exhaled for the sake

of Us and Them?

How many to express

how Your Kind

is not welcome here?

How much to say

this plot and view are Mine,

this child,

this family and house,

this church,

this god,

this country,

this illusion,

this hope

all Mine

and You have no place

or space,

no trace of grace

shines on your face?

So few

these breaths

so short

the time

before the land we claim

claims us.

May those

last words

speak grace.