Sunday, October 11, 2015

To Jeremiah Young, who died before we met, I think

to jeremiah, who died just before we met, i think
(a poem by a faust)

a friend of a friend 
upon whom did depend
all manner of things now set free
a few days ago through 
some people i know
wrote some words that managed to reach me
after he died, 
after he died --

between that moment and this one he died --

everything strange no doubt rearranged
but how could it be, to me
how is it this way for me?
that each separate word nevermore to be heard
as should be, said by him, properly
now only in silence 
in the mind of a stranger
as soon enough mine will, 
for me.

Death sucks.
Be seeing you.

No comments:

Post a Comment

COMMENTS are most certainly welcome