He had big round knuckles
and slanted white fingers
Ninety five years
of little or no
sex
Devotion to a dogma that
somehow soothed him in his
darkest moments
A life that, to me,
seems entirely hollow
and ironically meaningless
(his god will judge that)
He was a victim of his own certainty:
He put all his eggs in the
cart before the horse
and made a leap into nothingness
a jump of the gun
and a waste of one
and a million billion lives.
I cannot pretend to feel
what he appears to feel so deeply
nor can I determine the worth of his life or beliefs,
for it is the task of time
and death
to erase all beliefs.
I feel lucky
and glad
to not worry as much
about my own.
