Sunday, 13 September 2009

poem 13/9

Reflecting suns grow old now
Facing South days done:
I know I am dead already –
The dog at my knees,
His fur like thatched straw;

The Black Hole lets in no light,
King and prince dead in palace –
Murder by night,
The judge longs for peace –
His friends are burning on the wicker;

I am not dying young
Man is not here woman
Gone home, it is now night –
In daylight quiet bliss
Distracts death from entering –

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