And where is your life
After you have faked death?
(I can hear the whispers)
I send myself notes to find
And surprise myself with.

Even though I lost my friends,
Even though I am just a shadow
Of my former self,
Suddenly here in the mist
I see them all nameless.
And in the mist where madmen
Believe in dreams and scare
Away hapless prayers,
Suddenly I cant tell if my
Arrogance was elegant
Or simply a fools sacrament.

Perhaps-maybe
I will pulled the switch
At my own execution and stand here
Alone searching for love
Among the thorns,
Alive but Ded,
And maybe someone will give
A **** enough to stop me
From further looking like
The insane narcissistic man
I believe myself to be.

Still I feel compelled to teach
A parrot a badword or two,
Never again will anyone mourn
Over me,
Sad because the tears brought me
Such a sorrowful joy.

Did I win or lose?
Perhaps-maybe nature won.
One less spin cycle,
Gallons of life water saved.
In my intellectual hemitage
I find a difference can be made,
Oh underwear,
Spirit of nature,
First I wear you proper,
And the day is good.
I walk forward into the morrow
And turn the world backwards.
Yes the tag now goes to front,
And wedgies aside, all is well.
In the instantaneous moment
Ina departure of normalities,
Confronted with a bundle of reflections,
I move into day three,
Inside out.
The days have dispersed,
I wreak of the third day,
Still a difference has been made.
I take off the underwear,
Crispy and tainted,
With a lump in my throat
And a little hope I made a difference,
The underwear is sacrificed to the hamper.

.....Lo, forth I do march,
Hell's scorch fuels the ascendancy
Into solemn inner battle amongst
Myselves,
I am a poem at war with words,
The pen a bride like some spectral
Verbiage- luminosity antagonisong
The swell of ferocity, I do cling
As the audascious hope gathers its wounds
And scatters like petals in the furious winds,
The forbearance of that knife
Wielded within the self,
Self against self,
The battle rages against the heart,
Against the mind,
Down to the very soul!

In the craftmans tomb,
A poem floods the inner sanctum
And the march forward seems
Like a depression plowing
The fields of memory,
Oh what dreams may come
May also haunt.

And one drops many a word,
The war inside like flock
Of crows into the blinding light,
I still here could not give in,
The soul still battles its flesh....

So Im alive,
But I died a little inside.
Because I am dead
And now alive and reborn
Into a thousand words never written,
I will become no one again.
Did you metaphorically cry?
Sad as thinking how well
You truly knew me?

" But we were poets!"

And so you live and die by the
Stroke of the passionate lie
That are the words that well
Up inside like a brutal indignity,
Outraged at my shamelessness
Did I ever truly puncture your heart?
I am Ded inside,
And I dont know you,
But I just love your poetry!

So we sever the ties from reality
And divorce the facts
In a hopeful serenade to the deaf,
See how I magnify the ignorance
With brazeness?
Such splendid grandoisity!
And a poem is just a word,
There is no poem without action.
I am me,
No metaphor needed,
Just who the hell do you think
You are?

My brother in arms was laid to rest
Amid a fanfare and pomp as was their best
For such was surely his deserved reward
To honor his heart and spirit and love out-poured.

And this was he: a simple man in plain clothes
Who willingly stood beside us lesser folk
Yet never his nose was higher than us
For he knew he was not greater but just

A man who sought to love and to be loved,
To help others with no cost in mind,
To remind us all with every passing day
That life is good when we treat each other well.

And I watched them raise their arms in salute
With tears and cries threatening to break forth
From soldiers' steeled hearts and guarded eyes.
They loved him as a brother, a friend, a father.

And I repented of my own dark ambitions
To leave this world cleaner with my passing,
For there is no peace for others
In our taking of our own lives
Whatever the feeble justification;
Just loss and emptiness with no direction.

But these who stood around his grave
Had light and purpose in their eyes
For though he had gone into Death's arms,
He had not left them empty-handed.

He left them love and peace and purpose.
And the aspiration to be half the man he was.
And this I saw was his final farewell,
To be the inspiration to others as he was to me.

How do we honor him?
How do we say goodbye?
We keep his words in our thoughts
And love as deeply as he did us.

We raise our glass for the DedPoet.
Sláinte!

A normal man
Wilt sayeth a simple goodbye, on his deathbed;
A poetic man wilt recite
Poetry in his dying breathe's


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©DEDPOET DEDICATION