I once saw a fish

washed upon the shore.

I stared down as it lay 

on its sandy grave

taking its last breath

then stepped away

as the seagulls came

tearing away at the carcass.

 

And I thought.

This is the best we can hope for – 

not to be remembered – 

but to provide for whatever comes after us. 

Knowing, like the fish,

when to live

and when to die.

 

The older I get

the less optimistic I feel.

Fantasy is for escape,

reality is for living;

however unpleasant it may be.