David Byrne Poet Rhyme

The Dead Man's Clothes

Ward-robe, things are stacked, 
Jackets hang along the rack.
Stale smell of time that’s spent, 
Designate the absent gent.

Practised shoes beside the door,
Cease to plod the polished floor.
A wallet emptied of its cash,
A modicum of the dead mans stash.

Buried deep beneath the clay,
He won’t be coming back today.

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L'Nass Shango December 25, 2009 at 1:02 PM We move in a world of many memories under the shadow of the dead ... money is such awesome means of closing for many, but if does not come back, will we? Thanks, this is a provocative one.

Sara Kendrick December 24, 2009 at 3:42 AM This one is very drawing write. Should make one sit up and take notice. One could go in all different directions from it as his family did not care enough to even do something with his clothes or they just couldn't handle that just yet. Keep the magical pen flowing. Thanks for stopping by and commenting on my work. Sara

Robert A. Dufresne December 20, 2009 at 5:36 PM A sad and haunting write,here David.-Robert