Death Poem

Death Poem [9-12-05]


Sunday is a day of rest.
A day of belief,
A day to remember,
Not just ‘cause of September.

Armstrong, named famous, great,
Pleasant to the end . . .
How the irony stings for it to be on 9/11.

Sunday is reflection, not dejection.
But I still feel it . . .
Cold,
Gut-wrenched,
Somber,
Silence is my only answer.

Living, breathing, holding it
down, to a place
where I can’t frown . . .

I’m dry and tired, written as much
as I can expire.
Optimism is my curse and desire.

Adios.