Swan Song

I like to dabble in the thoughts of final acts. Could you hope to create something beautiful out of your last living moment? And even so, would your life be able to speak of the beauty of your time on Earth?


Swan Song

Muted voices hid our acts,
tenuous bridges o'er our hearts.
We are the children,
the ones that dare to dream impossibility.

We oft cling to tentative likeness.
Immortality is naught but fabrication.
When first we begin to walk,
we learn to step backwards with indolence.

From the base clamor of the newborn child,
we learn to seal our true voice within -
a husk that masks identity.
We are the swans without voice,
grasping for ourselves in a conformist sea.

Castles that formed in sand,
were as the schemes of mice and men.
All things must one day end,
but must they be stifled by an unwillingness to go?

Graciously accepting mortality,
they refuse to believe in the bonds of fragility.
Their voices are hoarse,
from crying muted exclamations of delight.

From the fallacy of those believed impervious,
we learn our mistakes are not made alone -
shared within each identity.
We are the swans without a voice,
straining to form the words too late to speak.

The amused sky line,
allowed the stars to shine their brightest.
Heaven hung over,
listening patiently for the call of the returned.

A stone that told that anchored an invigorated heart,
fueled it with the will to continue.
Flames refused to be extinguished,
burning with a determination to rejoice in glorified song.

From the grandeur of enlightened selflessness,
we raised heads in vigorous chorus -
sharing the boundary of heart and soul.
We are the swans without a voice,
hoping our song will echo beautifully through the clouds.