That's Not Me Poem by Kevin Hulme

That's not me lying there, In the Chapel of Rest in a Strangers care. Who in youthful days of Summers gone, My childhood friends and I, Would cast our plays of righting wrong, And all Villainous deeds decry.
Who grazed young arms and scraped young knees, In games we daily played. And God was in his Heaven and sat right with the World, By sweet Sherbet and warm Lemonade. That's not me who laughed and danced, And flattered girls to a brief Romance.
To whispered vows and early nights, There by our future planned. And all but few, as if by some law they do, were build on shifting sand. That's not the man who traveled wide, Through foreign lands and rolling tides. There learned of man, as he of me, All cultures to embrace. I was the sum of all my days, A Testament to my race. And all to soon, weariness and age, weariness and age,
Those Craftsman on the payroll of time. Did torment as the years passed along, And tell of the loved ones that I'd known. The Dear and Departed that the Heart does possess, And so missed and the Love that was shown. That's not me in my Sunday Best, The light has gone, the Spirit undressed. What is left is an empty Home, The Essence of which, has Risen and flown.