Saturday, July 16, 2011

Wither

Wither, disinegrate
and all the games we played
what we thought was important
needed, wanted, longed for
dust.
Do you regret it?
Why should I?
Photos and shorties
seeds we plant now
keep it all turning.
Smiling faces, photos, families
screaming we are more
than dust.
Biding time till the great goodbye
the only supernatural event
we ever really experience.1
Bugs on wax faces
body parts hanging
the whole walking
talking waiting
wither.

1. Ann Rice,the witching hour,1980

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