Finest Hour

If this is my finest hour,
and these be my final words
think not of them as strained,
or scripted or false.
Think of them as a parting gift
of improvised dimensions.

And typed on cold granite
phrases of virtue and honour,
now meaningless to the passers by.
For everyone in the grave yard was great.
As if the devils never die,
but linger on and haunt us.

As my old bones
thrown into the sod
creaking under the weight of the world
and my cold closed eyes
and stiff icy fingers
neither blink, nor twitch at the sound
of the mourners feet drumming
on the ground,
think upon this:

If this is my final hour
and these my finest words
what life have i lived?
but one that is absurd....