P I C K    A   L E G A C Y

 What shall we leave them

in their tender innocence?

Rich jewels of wisdom

Silken tapestries of truth

the fine-spun gold of honor

so hard-wrought?

(But will they ever know

the price these riches cost

such greatness, theirs

so painlessly acquired

piled up in boxes they

may never open?)

 
Or property, perhaps?

Fine houses, murmuring

with servants, cloaked in hush

Green lawns immaculate

And expectations high

Fine tastes you’re proud to see

are always gratified

but seldom satisfied

Refined, demanding too

(But soul all shrivelled-dry –

a dead moth in a purse)

 
Or – wild and glorious –

a martial legacy

with secrets crushed

and spent in history’s ashtray?

A sordid tale

The screams ring in our ears

A scramble: frenzied, wild

--for safety that

cannot be found—

Dull-eyed in death

cold bodies sprawled

and soaked in blood –

Where is the glory, then

When echoes linger on

to haunt the guileless ears

of all posterity?

 
Or bland indifference?

All smiles and shrugs

And shades of grey

The nothing-ventured nothing-gained

Of hollow mumbles steeped in

mindless apathy and

smug self-satisfaction;

The unexamined life

Of  thoughtless calculation

When it is over

There’s no mark at all