Life is a journey
And death, a destination
they say.

This road was paved in gold,
they say,
as I breathe in the dirt
and a passing-truck
gives me a taste
of my bitter luck.

It's not my fault,
they say,
each time the air meets my feet,
coughing up the dust,
as try to bear
this determination and lust.

I'm not done walking
I tell myself
and falling,
I cry out the dirt
and cough up the mud
and wipe off my shirt.

But one day, I won't get up
For even on a gold plated street,
each wonderful thing
will end incomplete