Saturday, November 8, 2014


He made it through life
Poor man, without any
Mistakes, poor soul, and died

With all his wits about him,
Poor man, with no one
Left alive, poor soul, to see.

I placed him in the ground,
Poor man, and planted
All my mistakes, poor soul, above.

I brought tour busses full myself,
Poor man, to see the flowering
Cenotaph, poor souls like me,

Who believed ourselves indebted
To him, poor man, who taught us
How to vanish, poor soul, sans anything

Like a substantive regret. His bones
Poor man, evaporated in his ashes
But his shape, poor soul, remains,

A testimony to the grace of vanishing
Away from a guilt-obsessed species, poor men,
Toward pure soul, blameless, in the end.

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