Will the grass still grow?
By Martin S. Wathen
When I pass, oh how I wonder,
Would the seasons still glide by?
Will the leaves never plunge? Or
Even, ever grow back at all?
When I’m gone, how long away that may be,
Will clocks defiantly opt not to tick?
Surrendering to a conclusion, will
Their arms merely roll down their sleeves?
When I am no more, I question,
Will I be a lost memory?
Will my face become faded to the rest?
A pebble floating amongst the bottom of the sea?
When I die, I dread to speculate,
Will the grass continue to grow?
Will the bugs still slither about it?
Will they ever even know?
When I die, I reflect,
Will my open narratives weave,
Into satisfactory conclusions?
Will I answer all of my questions?
When I die, I cement myself about the fact,
I wonder what ever was the point.
Will I intake a final breath with a smile?
Or grimace in detest – at a life I never truly lived.
See, when I die, I must face that truth.
An abstract concept, far too loose.
I wonder, when I die, will avenue I’d choose.
Regret, resent, peace or fear.
See, when I die, I realise this now.
My life should not match the end of all else.
Trees should grow, waves should still crash.
Seasons should change and laughs still had.
When I die, I decide on reflection.
I should embrace the time after my own.
Treasure the only currency, worthy after I’m gone.
That, the impact of my being on those after I pass.
After I’m gone, I hope as I decide,
That those I cherish learn to smile at this fact.
When I am dead, I do so wish,
That those I love understand bliss.
Now, when I am passed,
I hope they realise the beauty,
In that nothing truly lasts.
About the Creator
Martin S. Wathen
A writer practicing in both prose and script. With a deep passion for film and screenwriting, I use this platform to publish all unique ideas and topics which I feel compelled to write about! True crime, sport, cinema history or so on.
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