When not trying to dream up characters or plots or similar fictional devices (and when not being silly on Facebook or elsewhere) I sometimes try my hand at a bit of poetry.  Although it is often maligned for being “up its own bottom” or “arty-farty” (particularly when it comes to modern blank-verse forms) and there can be a fair bit of unwelcome snobbery associated with poets and poetry, there is something very pleasing and human about writing a poem or short verse.  We all do it at some point, even if it’s only a bit of doggerel or a daft limerick and there can be a real feeling of satisfaction just playing with the rhyme and rhythm of language to construct something in poem form.  Not that I can claim to be any great shakes in the verse or lyric department, but it’s fun and there’s nothing wrong with a bit of practice now and again.

Anyway, a while ago, I was sitting at my desk just writing and doodling away – nothing special, just scribbling in a journal – when I had a sudden, unexpected visit from one of the muses of poetry (I’m not sure which one) and had to write the following down.  It’s a little dark in its theme, but that probably reflects where my head was at the time (although I’ll leave that particular discussion for another day).  It’s called “At the End”.

At the End.

No secrets. No lies.
Everyone dies.
Maybe aware. Maybe surprised.
A life’s living done.
A race duly run.
A year, a week, a day in the sun.
And what will you see
That night when you’re there?
Will you look back in anger?
Or shame? Or despair?
Mistakes you have made.
Foundations you’ve laid.
A life full of joy
Or mainly afraid?
A light burning bright
Or hidden from sight?
Will things you have done
Still be there when you’re gone?
Or will there be just
A small handful of dust
To throw in the air and say
“Yes. I was there.”