Wednesday, May 4, 2016

For the Artists Formerly Known as Alive

Perhaps we don't deserve them anymore--
An inartistic age will bring collapse
That spreads as death upon the island shore
Of greatness, lost big beat without relapse.

How can't I grieve--how can't those waves wash high,
Erode my soul and yet rebuild my soul
With every death--how can I now deny
No time is guaranteed to reach your goal.

The sea of time's eroded far too long,
Too much--two times my life is what I need
To do all I must do--I must be strong
And let these deaths become my vital seed.

It's early when an artist has to leave:
They help us see ourselves--that's why we grieve.

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