Wisdom Poem by Thomas Bates

Horses, once tender, restless in pastures
Have flown - faster than calendar days,
Leaving this plastic cup of wine
In my left hand- and mind,
in a philosophic haze.

I inevitably think:
WHAT DOES IT REALLY MATTER? , but then
I look to you
of whom I thought existed
And I knew 'IT' DOES MATTER,
For you've shown me the elusive truth.

Great men throughout all history have
Invented themselves...
Into self-made kings, maybe, or hedonists-
all on universal down swings
and
into potter's graves (numerous

but shallow, and cold.)
or
into hallways
of wisdom and uncommon wealth.

(death will never please me with it's teeth
I
want the unexpected in all things.)