In the front row Of life Death sits in the middle . On the left sits A young man Cupping the edge of his crumbling poem On the right sits His grandfather Too old to be rewritten with a closure And much cataractous ,to be read
The bell cries 'alleluia' Sporadically slow And every time it does so , Death looks around for a gateway But the young man shoves it back By his karmic arms And the old blood is immovable enough To be crossed . As if a carcass of stoned history , an aeon .
Well, I know from the gifts of ancestry That end is the only possible seat of death . So when I see a crowd Blocking it in the mesial , I doubt the ancestry , at once Next, I doubt life I doubt the crowd I doubt death I doubt the young and his old alike
So at the edge of Everything I sit to write and find I jump, hop and ask in shock What's wrong . What's wrong ! And, you What are YOU looking for In these Woods of scattered alphabets The only tree that's branching here Is Sceptical . Just sceptical and nothing else.
I had nothing to offer to anybody except my own confusion ~Jack Kerouac