Just one, red rose, Red lips, cute nose, A smile, bright eyes, An hour, time flies, Dancing, the rain, Car drive, fast lane, Forget, the time, Useless, bad rhymes, A drink, or two- No, never that few- The future, the past, The outcasts, outlast.
“I will bury you,” Should only be said By the Earth below us, And the Sky above; “I shall outlast you,” Should be spoken only By the birds and the bees, And perhaps the leaves on the trees, For all that remains of a man When he is long-gone Is the whisper of his memory Along the cosmic wings of time, And, of course, the planet That became his tomb, Busy growing and changing, Too vast and ancient To see his life as greatness, Yet too resilient To mourn him.
You can find more of my poetry at caitlincacciatore.wordpress.com
