Dead Poet’s Requiem

I speak of this with great regret
Wishing you were here instead
Of silence. In my growing dread
You’ve gone to write among the dead
Their eulogies‘ unspoken words
And poems damned to stay unheard.
Today in song a memory stirred
Of white-tipped wings of winter’s birds
Who sailed upon a flat, grey sky
And sang their hoary, splintered cry
To mock and call the rocks to fly.
You went to ground, to sing and die.
The soil that has you now, I know
Has let much verdant glory grow
Out from the gory thoughts below.
But as the winds of winter blow
And through the famished branches go
The world feels old and lost and slow.

What we have left is poverty
A swelling lack of poetry
A rampant insincerity
As never was ‚tween you and me.

~ von gedichtblog - 8. April 2014.

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