I've heard many poets wish for a grand death.
One where the waves of the sea
knock the living breath from their pipes.
Or where a hurricane
sweeps them off their feet.
Maybe I'm a little different
from other poets.
It isn't the chaos of the earth that calls me.
It has always been the inviting quiet,
and her sultry eyes
beckoning arms
and sweet lies.
Because I often find myself thinking
about how grand it would be
to fall asleep peacefully
in a bed in a sunny meadow
no eager tics or mosquitos
preying on me.
Maybe with a few flower buds
to bloom and greet me when I wake up.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 11:47 PM UTC
I've heard many poets wish for a grand death.
One where the waves of the sea
knock the living breath from their pipes.
Or where a hurricane
sweeps them off their feet.
Maybe I'm a little different
from other poets.
It isn't the chaos of the earth that calls me.
It has always been the inviting quiet,
and her sultry eyes
beckoning arms
and sweet lies.
Because I often find myself thinking
about how grand it would be
to fall asleep peacefully
in a bed in a sunny meadow
no eager tics or mosquitos
preying on me.
Maybe with a few flower buds
to bloom and greet me when I wake up.
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