Dead White Men
The pages of poetry and prose,
So carefully and considerately composed.
A response to the voice inside of me that
Whispers in a manner incoherent.
I am listening, because there is not much else to be.
I can guarantee I will die unworthy
And leaving no legacy but a beautiful corpse.
There was a time when I
Would give you this book of my verse
Some pages of open confession
Not be loved or adored, not to be suddenly understood
By myself or by this or the next generation.
Prestige in this current lifetime is a pipedream at best.
This is the legacy I follow against my will, the hallowed
Halls of deaf redeemers like the casket laying empty
Slowly approaching at a glacial crawl.
One day my name and my
Obituary will assert my solidarity
With the dirt. To the earth
I will go with all these prayers
My heart ‘neath my ribcage
Below this empty vessel
The soul departed somewhere.
I leave you maxilla and tines.
Or whatever else remains behind.
A petulant allowance to be
Engraved upon the crypts
In the most appropriate narrative,
Bereft of the truth in our histories
Given rather to fits of hysterics
And a careful, considerate lyric.
Copyright © Samuel Lee | Year Posted 2015
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