Doctor and mourner die, too,
After mourning over you.
So everything’s equal in the end:
In the world, nothing to defend
But another moment of giving
By those fortunate to be living.

What we strain—with our souls—to say
Cannot be articulated anyway,
Except in vague gestures understood
By ceremony and the common good.
So do not panic about your fate–
The poetry prize arrives too late.

The happy do not heed fame.
After burying you,
Doctor and mourner will be buried, too,
With furious indifference the same.

1 Comment

  1. Marcus Bales said,

    June 23, 2010 at 6:09 am

    Everybody Dies

    We hide our self-forgiving ways
    And failures, and disguise
    As best we can in dull cliches
    Our blunders with our lies.

    We plead for one anothers’ praise
    And plot for every prize
    For proof of what that praise displays
    With ploys The Prince supplies.

    We plant and plow our works and days,
    And harvest what denies
    Denials in a well-wrought phrase
    Or well-placed word’s surprise.

    We occupy our own malaise
    Attempting to revise
    The law that everyone obeys:
    Everybody dies.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: