Over
I told the man, I'd write a poem, right now,
about the wind, but the strong warm breeze,
blew my words away over the hills;
and he smiled; a language understood, as if
to say;
" there go your words, blown away by the strong,
warm breeze, across the dusty plain, the unsold land,
the cattle's backs, and the crazy butting-goats"
and when I turned and looked across the fetid table,
he was a corpse; all yellowed, withered, dried up skin;
and I was afraid:
but then the voice of death said,
"don't worry; I've gone to carry your words
across the dusty plain, the unsold land,
the cattle's backs, the crazy butting-goats",
and as he faded into cirrus clouds, I looked
across the sand on sand, the trees on trees,
the thousand dancing, prancing fleas, the
ragged-jagged tawny-breeze; and a windy
whisper stirred in close, saying;
" let him go, let him go, let him go".
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015
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