Dying After Death

   Within the times of past days.

 Ones long forgotten.

   Giving way to days of maturity, of which was once youthful.

There was a man, and he created life.

   This man was present for a time of insignificance.

Regardless that the role was of significance.

   Though insignificant, sufficient enough to stain the future with a memory of.

A picture of a blurred face and presence.

   Energy that has long lost its power to supply connectivity.

To the offspring it gave light.

   For life moves on, leaving the past behind.

Creating a future of newness.

   Though change may be rough in its transition.

Non the less, it shall be so.

   And with it, a natural forgetfulness.

Not forgotten, but stored behind the doors of the subconscious.

   That hold and release suppressed memories when triggered.

Bringing about curiosity and wonder.

   What happened to this man, why hasn't he been around.

But eventually this desire to know dwindles away.

   Dwindled into the irrelevance of a brief moment.

Succumbing to the relevance of now.

   Which brings about the unpredictability of living.

For news has arrived of disbelief.

   For he is alive, but ill.

Why, why now, why not any of the times before?

   Is it guilt, a need to atone and ask for forgiveness?

But with an unkind cruelty that only life can deliver. Just like that, he's gone again.

   Lost within the translation of what transitioned.

Yet there was no feeling, a blackness of emotion.

   For this man died, a long time ago.