Clementine Lyon 1917-1918
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Poem 72
From the anthology, Voices From Mt Olive Cemetery, a work in progress.
Clementine Lyon
1917-1918
Little does anyone remember,
That when the wee little birth door opens,
And the first light blindingly shines through,
Death is standing there,
Laughing,
With his sticky net swishing to catch you.
But tiny me, how lucky I was.
I survived the birth plunge;
I made it through, squirmingly,
To this strange turning green world,
This larger extending net,
Made of twine from the beard of past days,
Where destined time holds sway,
Where Death continues to hunt young meat.
My worldly stay was short and sad.
And I am mindful that I never had friends,
Or that I ever walked under a tree.
Copyright © Stark Hunter | Year Posted 2018
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