The Days of Whine and Life Supposes

The crimes of youth are crimes of guileless passion, too hot for reason’s cool.  Torrid desires lead to wreck and riot, wild Dionysian days. Fresh throated joy and folly lost to hard abandon, while all the while, loud decrying soft bounds of an ancient world’s constraint.

Trespasses of these innocent left light impressions upon the sands of time, while their fresh blood is swallowed whole by the dragons of oblivion.  No mark of distinction, no cairn of stone mark the subtle passage of the too soon dead.  A blithe balloon of spirit lifts gently toward the heavens, when souls of weak attachment decide to die. Timeless oceans wash clean all wayward ways, dowsing passion’s fire.  Swirling gusts of air, in windy measure, blow unsoiled ashes in wafting torrents into azure cloudless skies.

A stone thrown upon the pylon of memorial in the temple of our grateful dead, this ode of grace is cast upon the heap of remembrance.  A pebble bearing silent witness to the truth of holy suppositions in a godless world of fear and pain.

We all danced and swayed to the rhythms of our time, living life as if there was no tomorrow.  We live today, waiting on the day when at last our turn will turn our joys away from worldly care.  Prepare the youthful heart, refresh the lonely soul with thoughts of fine young friends who met untimely ends.  Forget the fear, restrain the tear, live life as if there was no sorrow. Rejoice the time to come, when souls well met, will reunite upon the eternal morrow.

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