Poetry - Mourn not death
How will they speak of us when we are gone?
How you shook when they fired,
you fell before the call.
Forget about the violins they play...
Down your instruments!
Leave them to write their own lives,
sing their own souls away.
The funeral march begins,
the procession of what you were, exposed.
They are the pallbearers to what they destroyed,
smiles of mirth covered by tears.
'What a loss... what a life...'
Empty murmurs not heard.
Because of them -
death was your only chance to live.
Let them talk of us when we are gone,
as we dance and smile for what we have left behind.
Posted on October 19, 2006 6:11 AM
