“Do I sense
some resistance -
a sense of injustice?”
whispers Life
folding me cold
in her ample python-coil
and she sings me her song
“The flowers bloom
in the fields, sweet love
to be gathered for your bier
Time lingers in the wings
to pull you off stage
at the moment
opportune in its Clasped Book
The worms wait patient
if you choose a burial;
if cremation’s your choice
the fires wait in quiet potential
The musicians practise
to be employed
by the survivors
to deliver you a dirge
And so my sweet love -
Live well
Night night, sleep tight,
don’t let the bedbugs bite"
I hate it when everybody quotes me "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas, as if it were the final words...great poems too become cliches when they are quoted indiscriminately by those who rather lean on the 'wisdom' of others...