The Meaning (Original Contemporary Poetry)

The wind whispers a tune to describe the feelings of yesterday,

and it carries them to tomorrow.

How can words be so clear in a darkened night

and my senses go so astray to make me think I knew?

When all my bones crack and disassemble,

they will return here to the aftermath and the beginning

to tell a new story, and I haven't heard it yet.

But I will. I will know the howling cries that call for me

as if I were worthy to be part of it all.

I will laugh when I am torn apart and tell the joke

like I invented it, dust-covered and ancient.   

Tell me how I can be pieced together in a new form.

Give me an elevated place and allow me to witness it,

scrambled but passionate, hollow and faceless,

an author of something I can not yet explain,

but as years follow me so will the words, and I will.

Hi, everyone. I haven't posted here in quite some time. But I wrote this poem about death and the meaning of life, how this journey seems meaningless, and yet knowing that I, like others, will never have any true answers until I am dead (and even then, maybe not).