Friday 3 January 2014

To Death

That never sweetly comes.
An arrogant boatman,
Carried by the currents of nurture, love and loss,
Blown by the reliable tradewinds of time,
Pulled to shore by the waves of indignity.
You'll believe suicide can be brave.

We all talk of curtain's close,
the actors retreat.
But the stage remains.
The seats too.
Empty.

From the lowliest, to heroes.
Black suits mean no glory.
It's washed away on the pallid face.
Poignant poems and posies
and the sombre horse drawn hearse
just another sunset in a war.

"Is it dark?" I wonder,
"When you have no concept."
And as my doll-like figure, fragile,
stumbles druggedly, I know.
Soon I'll find out.
I'm scared.
Soon I'll find out.

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