The tattoo maker
working with quiet persistence,
Tattooed a label on the heart,
which turned a quagmire,
a trapping swamp.
Life then became a mere
undoing operation managed by death
to relieve the struggler of his pain
and carry him home
as a very rich man,
who returns with all treasures
unspent during the journey.
He died very rich,
For he still possessed
all that he was born with,
He now lay like a foolish farmer
who kept all his seeds
safely hidden in his barn,
Never took them to the fields,
Never opened them to the sun’s smile,
In musty darkness they rot now,
Life seeped out,
Hopes and possibilities bleached,
And gloom settles on the corpse
like crows crunching a dry carrion.
It was a life unspent,
Just like a tiny rodent
merely crawled on a plywood sheet,
while wasted were the seeds
that would’ve made him an elephant
joyfully stomping on solid earth.
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