The Edge

Seventy for a man, his stay

Is near to a close.

Fortanetely for him, he's had

Time to smell the rose.

There is anger in the knowledge

That the joy is near the end.

Some men live to ninety, but

That's against the trend.

Eternity has no memory

That we were here before.

Or in that time ahead

There will ever be some more.

He's near that Edge of

Darkness.

That black of no more being

That place we never came from.

The place we're never seeing.

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