Old habits die hard,

Robert Frost and dying stars,

Those are the things that made me.

 

Cherry blossoms now in bloom begin wilting on the stem.

Far too early is the death of them.

 

I look for a mirror,

An analogy in the life of a man like me,

One who died tangibly unremarkable yet tragically.

 

Like Chris McCandless who ran off to the terrible wild,

And reminded me all too much of the man I met when I was legally a child.

Whom I love,

Who has changed,

And grown beyond that Into the Wild cage.

 

But I want my own martyr of my own story.

But my story is quiet,

Unremarkable and silent,

Sad for those who know it but hardly enough to inspire great poets.

So the man like me who died far too young lies dead and forgotten.

 

Or perhaps not,

And I am the one destined to suffer that fate,

I’ll be honest right now I can’t really say.

 

My brain gets lost,

Stuck in patterns, in circles with no end,

It tears itself apart agonizing over them.

 

It feels like fate,

An idea I often hate,

But submit to all the same.

I want a story of the death of me so that I can keep living.

 

But deep breaths clear my vision,

I open my heart and I listen:

 

My life may be golden,

And it may come to pass,

But in that is a beauty,

A hope that can last.