The Dash

by CD Richards

Behold this—my urn—alone and forlorn;
its little brass plate tells the day I was born.
And though I can't see, as I'm locked up inside,
the same little plaque shows the day that I died.

Between these two dates, just a single straight line—
an all-too-brief moment when this world was mine.
It stands for my lifetime—this one little dash.
Of the person I was, all that's left is just ash.

Yes, all of my hopes, and all of my dreams,
and all of my plotting and ill-thought-out schemes,
and all that concerned me before my life ended,
has now come to this: a hyphen, extended.

We can't tread again the dust whence we came;
our beginning and ending, it seems, are the same.
We've much we must do, before we move on,
to leave the world better off once we are gone.

There's more point to life (of this fact I am sure)
than stumbling along until we're no more.
Our lives are so fragile—and gone in a flash.
Please use your time wisely, ere you've done your dash.

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Rhyming Poem contest entry

Recognized

I'm not the first to observe the significance of the character that separates the date of our birth from that of our death. I haven't, however, read a poem on the subject. This is my take on it.

"Done your dash" is a popular phrase in Australia. Loosely translated, it means, "You had your chance and you blew it."

Thanks for reading.

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The Dash

by CD Richards

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