Death bed : Karl Marx
Death Bed Poetry: Karl Marx
(Epigraph: "Go on, get out! Last words are for fools who haven't said enough!")
The final dictate, delivered with a wheezing sneer,
A curt dismissal for the great, grave theater
Of the dying ego, demanding one more line
To cap a life and make the silence shine.
Fools, you say, who, having spent a lifetime’s breath
Defining the very engine that drives history to death,
Still clutch the air for one last, luminous phrase,
To illuminate their final, failing days.
A monumental architect of the printed word,
Whose volumes mapped the chaos of the world,
The ghost of surplus value and iron law
Haunted the margins of your every flaw.
Did you fear, perhaps, that any last poetic art
Would only prove you had a beating, fragile heart?
That all your monumental works would stand betrayed
By some soft whisper you accidentally made?
No. The dialectic spent, the argument complete,
You chose the only perfect, final, grand retreat:
To mock the final word, to scorn the need to speak,
Leaving only thunder where a silence ought to break.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
