Friday, April 23, 2010

A poem about Death I wrote at 18.

I've now found (15th May 2010) the original version
of this, and I can now correct my memory slighty including the title:


Death personified
However grim or pale
His robes, relieves.
Helps pull the blanket
Over ears,
Of our internal children.

Seizes deep down
The hope that Death:
An Urbane figure of decay
might be.
Amenable to argument,
or finest wines
Or some dissuading plea.

Forget it
Death is.
Not one of the boys.
Is Nothing.
No more than Night.
An absence.
Silent, shattered by the Light.

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