I carve my gravestone
with my own two hands.
The words penetrate slowly,
grinding deeper
with every poem,
every photograph,
every story.
I can read my epitaph
through your eyes.
I can hear my eulogy
in our growing tales.
When thunderclouds retreat over the mountains,
part of my soul follows.
When smoke rings fade with conversation,
part of my voice lingers.
When the sawdust settles,
part of my reflection remains.
I spread my ashes now
so when Death calls
there will be nothing left to take.
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5 comments:
holy buckets this is good.
loved the whole thing but especially the first stanza.
jack
Thanks Jack.
Jake....Simply Brilliant. I feel like I am reading an old classic from a poet of old.
money dude...seriously, your work is sweet arse man. love your kiddo. ours can play together in a few days.
was in south dakota the other day driving through and screaming to my wife..."ITS CLEAR...YOU CAN PASS NOW!!!"
YES, PARKER!
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