No one will mourn you

if, 

in the blindness of your stumbling,

maliciously indifferent,

odyssey,

you let the only refuge you 

will ever have 

slip through your 

idiot fingers.

There will be no solemn line

of pensive, drawn faces,

no whispered expressions

of consolation,

no embraces and perfunctory

offers of "anything I can do."

It has been given to you 

by accident.

You were made from it,

but not for it,

and if you squander

its ageless inheritance,

there will be no rescue,

no escape,

no harbor from your 

self-generated

storm.

And from the outside,

no one will notice

anything different,

if they ever noticed

anything

to begin with.