A poem about how things will go on without me to enjoy them. |
And When I’m Dead And when I’m dead, the flamenco dancers will still perform with passion in the streets of Granada, serpentine tuxedo cats will run with abandon down darkened corridors, when it chooses, the rain will fall from cloudless skies on a bright, sunny day, the mockingbird will sing in the night any song but his own, the morning dew will collect in a string of crystal baubles on the spider’s web, the words of Frost and Thomas will wring response from innocent hearts, the sea will still hiss and suck at empty beaches in the dawn, white stones will blind in the light when lifted from the whiskey water of a mountain stream, the hoarfrost will still make lace upon the branches of a frozen winter, a lost metallic-effect credit card will gleam like gold from the blades of grass, the Zulu deep miners will still march to work singing and stamping the beat in the dust-laden air, there’ll still be elections and I still won’t vote in them. There might be, however, a corner of a foreign field that is forever England and I’ll still be dead. Line Count: 40 Free Verse For me No Prompt. |