Thirty Two years old
And he’s really gone.
Body beautifully adorned
And underground.
What now life?
What will you do now?
Will you strike me down
Or make me endure this?
Future I can’t see
Evasive and ever changing,
The past never changes
But tortures every moment.
The present sharpens
And blunts me
In equal measure,
Useless for every task at hand.
How will I scrape
Out an existence,
If grief sands me down
To a featureless stone.
Blunt and sharp in equal measure,
Useless for every task at hand.
– Vagabond Prophet
Vagabond Prophet 