Close The Books

A man lives past his prime,
Life and death on the drop of a dime,
I ask, “Death, pray tell, where is my crime?”
Close the books on this often one time,
Man with a passion bent on lying,
And then at other times bent on dying.
I see no passion in his eyes anymore,
As I quietly slip out of the back door,
There is no solace in my broken voice,
I know the whole time it was my choice.
Capture the moment and hold it captive,
Some men are destine for death, others life,
While he is trapped in shackles and chains,
All attempts for freedom are only in vain.
So, the Poet, the Coward, the Liar of Seville,
The Man that cheated Death on that one night,
Is accused once more in the halls of injustice.
Does he care any more? I think not, I say,
I was betrayed by my own Judas, my son.
No more into the breach will I battle again,
For I have fallen in the battlefield by one,
Judas in the midst, what have you done?

Rîchård Açévédø
5/21/13