I call upon thee paper hearses,
faded pictures, clichéd verses,
tell me how a soul transmutes
from pulse to pulp that is consumed,
with avid eyes by famished minds,
who feast on death to prove them live.
And let me know when life has passed
from "Much ahead!" to "Death, at last!"
and I shall mark with golden star
that date upon my calendar,
so I might know just when and where
that death has ceased to be unfair.
And then I'll know how much to cry
so I might grieve just as prescribed,
measure dosage by time of life,
a litre per year till twenty-five
and each year after, one capsized
because by fifty we're less deprived.
And the shame of it is, you never knew
that you'd done all we thought you'd ever do,
how already we had dug your grave,
on affordable stone, marked your place
in tasteful font, inscribed your name,
we simply await the filling in of dates.
It seems to me that when a young man dies
by obituary he is canonized;
another privilege I shall be denied
as this dream of life passes by,
undoubtedly somewhere summarized,
ready for print in Sunday Times.
Thoughts welcome.
Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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Excellent
A rather unique perspective. I choose not to leave constructive criticism for one simple reason: I am not qualified to do so. I am neither an English Teacher nor an instructor of Creative Writing classes. I'm more concerned with content of a poem, than academics of style, etc. One way, I think to ruin a fine poem, work of art, etc., is to over analyze it. "Analysis Paralysis" (lol) is not something in which I care to engage. That said I quite liked this one since I am a Senior Citizen.
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Haha, thank you for your kind words. I can certainly respect your perspective on critiquing, as it is definitely an inexact science.
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Yep, just like forecasting the weather! (lol)
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Worse, like forecasting the weather and the composition/technique of the storm, haha.
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ha. clever and brilliant. love the ending. perfect
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There are many living dead ...
walking around. And we are all guilty of not living the soul we are supposed to be.
Life is but a cliché of that we cannot grasp in this realm. Ironic, not so?
Be well Poet.
Myra
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