See all these people, Brian?
Each and every one, unique and special.
Each one, irreplaceable.
Look at that old man, for example.
Or, rather I should say:
Look at that elderly gentleman.
Inside himself, he is I.
He has memories as precious to him, as mine to me.
Many kinds of memories:
Of childhood days.  Of climbing trees.
Of throwing rocks.  Of skimming stones.
A time when time felt like an everlasting breeze.
Memories.  Precious childhood memories.
Of catching fish and chasing frogs.  Watching birds.
Of having and loving a dog, or a series of dogs.
Perhaps even of learning to love language and care for words.
Memories of Grandma and Grandpa.
Of Mom and Dad.
Of uncles and aunts and cousins--people loved, by the dozens.
And people loved deeply, individually.
So many memories.  Some good, some bad.
But all together precious--the sum of his life's identity.
The memory of his first blush.  The first time he felt a crush
On someone.   Then when he was hit hard, totally sweet on a girl.
The memory of the first time he kissed a girl.  A real live girl!
The first time he went out on a date.
The memory of going steady, with his first real girlfriend.
When things were mysterious, and finally got serious.
The memory of his first transport by pleasure.
The memories of his first true love.  His life's last love.
Every memory, a treasure.
And also, in his memory's treasure-bin,
His lifetime's very best friend--
Which, perhaps, as in our case, managed to transcend
Every other relationship and love.
This older man--and everybody here, young and old, in this restaurant--
Subject like me and you to time as tyrant.
Each person is the center of the universe, within.
Human consciousness--the topmost treasure of time,
Filled to unfold realities from untold potentials of the sordid and sublime.
A person--a human being--
In form, how like an angel--as Shakespeare said;
In apprehension, how like a god.
Godlike one.  That's me, Brian: Michael. 
But in truth, that's also you; and also everyone:
Each of us all, a godlike one.
Yet sadly, each a sod-shaped soul,
Glowing and living with beautiful, bountiful, spiritual breath,
Addressed unto the realm of death.
It is so sad to know,
That--swift or slow,
Soon or late--
Each one must face the final fate.
Whether in pain, powerless of anodyne--
A fate like yours--a fate like mine--
Or a finer, easier, unpained fate--a peaceful exit--a gracious gate.
Something I weepingly wanted for you and me, to love and to appreciate.
Long years or decades more, to live, to love and dream, to sing and shine.
Still, at last: Final fate.
Differently done, differently found--
But--in the end--in an urn, or scattered, or in the ground.
An end, or so seeming, of living and dreaming--
It looks like shade swipes sight,
Dousing day, and stripping night of light;
And it seems that silence swallows every sound.
Is there life beyond?  Who knows! 
We can only know where lie buried bones, that mock glorious birth;
Cold cover of magic miraculous life, under stones and earth.
We can know only where ashes fall and fan, and where dust blows.
Unpleasured and unpained,
Pitiful bones; sad senseless ashes; blind dead dust.
The rest is unknowable.  Hope, or unknowing faith, or leap of trust.
It is so sad and tragic that final fate finds all of us.
Oh, how much caring love, and compassion, I deeply feel--
For all my fellow and sister people!--For every single special one.
Your fate, Brian, and my fate, both teach me
To love my fellow and sister human beings compassionately.
To care truly, and do what good I can,
For sister woman and fellow man.
We each, soon or late,
Must fall into final fate--
Losing magic life, tragically, into death's deep dark mystery.
All these people, Brian--you see?  Each one of them, basically,
The same as you and me.
I hope and pray for new good life--for me; and especially, Brian,
I hope and pray for new good life, for you.
And I hope and pray for new good life, for every other person, too.
Each one unique, special, irreplaceable--just like me.
And some of the myriads of people, almost--but not quite--
Of so many wonderful ones living in light and lost in night--
Some almost--but no one, Brian, quite as wonderful as you;
Nor anyone quite as special as you. 
I hope and pray you are somehow, somewhere still living, and happy too.

==============================
Written by Michael LP, aka MLP
aka PoetWithCancer, aka PWC, aka Mr. Poet
Written on Monday, March 14, 2011  6:55 pm PST
Copyright (C) 2011 by Michael LP.  All rights reserved.