Boiling It Down (Poetry)

I don’t remember being born
I won’t remember dying
the calendar hangs old and torn
and I’m too numb for crying

The things I said too poor to own
the promises long-broken
too late to fret, deny or moan
all words are merely token

For life is such a foolish game
half-lived in hopeless dreaming
win or lose — it’s all the same
when love has little meaning

And Heaven is confection spun
while Hell is lemon-sour
where every stranger points a gun
and war’s declared each hour

Thus youth and beauty are no more
than fleeting idle wishes
and death will sink me as before
well-salted with the fishes