maybe this is what hemingway felt
as early morning summer sun filtered
in through half open windows admitting
just the slightest whisper of a breeze
while tiny motes of dust shimmered
and danced to a timeless unsung tune
a few final fleeting moments before
the inevitable end awaiting us all
(one way or another) standing naked
and alone the old oaken floorboards
hard beneath his feet and face to face
with the dawning recognition that our
manufactured glories fade just as surely
as any others and best remembered days
appear now more myth than memory
yet still not worth a damn anyhow.
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