This poem comes from a more melodramatic stage of my writing, but the subject of death is rather conducive to such a style at any rate. I wrote it five years ago when it looked like my mother had cancer; for some reason, the death of my dog reminds me of these lines, awkward and choppy though they may be.July 1, 2005
It seems our life is but a struggle weWill lose with death, for but a moment here,
Like grass on rocky crags that fights with fear
Until the mudslide wins supremacy.
“But death is natural,” they say to me,
Like incantations echoing to sear
It on our disbelief. Nay, it is clear
That breath is; death we taste unnaturally.
With spirits that reject what bodies taste,
We fight what Reason knows we can’t defeat.
“This world is not our home,” they say in haste...
“But still it could be,” adds a homesick breeze,
“For maybe once it was,” his heart agrees,
And proves man is a longing piece of meat.
1 comment:
I've come back to this poem, many times since this summer.
For whatever reason, the idea of homelessness, restlessness, has been with me all summer. Perhaps it's always been there, but I've had ore time now to stop and pay attention.
You expressed it well. Perhaps another book of poetry is due.
-Learning to Walk
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