"pronouncements" poems
“Who Am I?”
I am, who I am,
Whoever that is,
Whoever I was,
Whoever I become.
Others try to tell me
Who I am or should be,
I try not to listen to them,
Because in truth,
As to who I really am,
I don’t actually know,
At least for now I’m not,
One hundred percent sure.
Is there a Committie somewhere,
That directs such things?
Purveyors of personalities,
Dispensers’ of intelligence,
Measurers’ of ambition and success?
How to look, how to dress?
What is too fat,
What's too thin?
Perhaps some kind of scale,
To measure up,
Or down too?
Maybe there’s some magic formula,
When Mixed and taken,
Makes us who we “should” be?
But then, according to WHO?
As for all those other people,
Well meaning or not,
How can they possibly know more
About me, than I do?
I am a Work in progress,
Until I fail miserably,
Or until I’m dead,
Please have the decency,
To allow me, to be me,
And the time to find out.
'Cause frankly, all your
Premature pronouncements
Regarding me and who I am,
Is some really boring ****
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Obama jetted
back to Africa
soaring aloft on
gulf stream swank
a posse of
oil company execs
in tow, intent on liberating
Dark Continent
fossil fuels from unjust
underground prisons
American
entrepreneurs
angling to get the
upper hand in the
high stakes global
resource poker game
pulled a big time race card
to trump China’s
full house
On Goree Island,
political paparazzi
popped and clicked
a perfect image
of the neocolonial
white clad President
framed in a doorway filled
with dark shadows and
heinous memory of the
unspeakable horrors
of global trade
leering from
the portal at the
Gate of No Return
Obama welled with
meditative epiphanies
of personal seachange,
and the vicissitudes of life,
pondering his meteoric rise
from a Land of Lincoln
State Senator to
American President
in the span of
one golden
9/11 decade
At a
South African University
Town Hall Summit,
the fist bumpin,
mike droppin Prez
telepromted the
star struck folks with
solemn universal civil rights
pronouncements,
wrapped in the riddle of
the pursuit of peace,
hidden in the enigma of
the reverence for
human dignity
Later in the day
Mr. Obama sat at the
feet of a comatose Mandela;
whispering into his ear
why an Afghan peace
eludes him, why his
drone strikes rain
death upon innocents
and why his democratic
republic defiles
the civil liberties of its
citizens to ransom
a daily diet of fear
But Madiba does not hear
Mr. Obama’s feverish
confessions; his
ears are closed,
he dreams only
of the paradise of
liberation he earned
for his life's hard wages
Music Selection:
Gil Scott Heron
Western Sunrise
Oakland
070213
jbm
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
I was seventy-seven, come August,
I shall shortly be losing my bloom;
I've experienced zephyr and raw gust
And (symbolical) flood and simoom.
When you come to this time of abatement,
To this passing from Summer to Fall,
It is manners to issue a statement
As to what you got out of it all.
So I'll say, though reflection unnerves me
And pronouncements I dodge as I can,
That I think (if my memory serves me)
There was nothing more fun than a man!
In my youth, when the crescent was too wan
To embarrass with beams from above,
By the aid of some local Don Juan
I fell into the habit of love.
And I learned how to kiss and be merry--an
Education left better unsung.
My neglect of the waters Pierian
Was a scandal, when Grandma was young.
Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid,
And the bitter outmeasured the sweet,
I should certainly do as I then did,
Were I given the chance to repeat.
For contrition is hollow and wraithful,
And regret is no part of my plan,
And I think (if my memory's faithful)
There was nothing more fun than a man!
2.4k
no, let's not step
into the mud of labels
and stereotypes
and pronouncements and revelations
and fixed descriptions
and prescriptions
and easy categories;
let's step out of that baptism;
let's see instead
fresh and new and clear;
mostly we glide through life
lolly-coated with projections
and consolations
and mental formations
our minds programed from day one
on spinning earth;
let's, instead, if possible,
be still a moment
and see what actually is
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 10:44 AM UTC
Anglican death drips her intoxicating pronouncements around the squares, whilst obscure gossip prevails in the forests of Massachusetts.
Give me some bread whilst I stir this cauldron of distorted communications.
Will you please explore my future epitaph, and guard against the myriads of undertakers who seek to raise the chalice of dark and oratory expression?
Let us travel together, as we have already channelled the wisdom of the ages.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 2:58 PM UTC
Drawing upon the core of my being, I muster up the strength to survive.
Stepping into another plane of existence; one in which I have no capacity to resist toxicity; I am vulnerable.
A juggernaut lies at the end of the daylight hours; soft in temper and yet scourging in it’s pronouncements.
This is a being with no malicious intent; a sentinel guarding the sacred caliber of a spirit under divine instruction.
Darkness pervades in the form of light; I can sense a façade of purity within the confines of my bones.
This fortress that I have traversed into is infected with a murky haze looming just above the skies.
Escape is my only option; if I remain here it will be my demise.
When the juggernaut arrives, trepidation will electrify my soul; it will animate me.
Fear consumes me with every waking second I’m in it’s midst.
-This gargantuan being understands-
Empathy cannot save me however, once the utterances of ancient spirit inflict scathing wounds upon me in the name of humanity.
Attempting to rescue me from the tumult of the planet does not obscure the pain and heartache of compassionate words.
Wisdom lies within this walking tome; statue-esque maiden.
I have used my discernment as a bulwark; protection from wounds of sensitivity lies in detachment from myself.
I have come to realize that supplication does have a purpose.
-To plea with the remnants of a long forgotten world-
I am overwhelmed with euphoria when I realize that my fears have been nothing but stymie.
Fleeting in nature; they whispered to me of my incapacity to reach the heart of a relic growing wiser by the minute.
There is no judgment to be passed and I have been emancipated from the shackles of a foreshadowing past.
It leads to my genesis; the day when I shall be lifted up past all my iniquity.
Until that day, I await the metamorphosis of an ailing planet.
The Juggernaut does have a purpose.
This maiden shall be a beacon amongst the tumult of the seasons.
I shall look to her as a guide and honesty is what shall pervade from her lips.
In trueness she shall bestow her utterances upon me.
Like the sweetest honey, her words will befall my eardrums.
Internalization spurs a chemical reaction within me.
I am changing.
I have been enveloped by blinding rays of light.
The darkness is no match for the spiritual sinew that I possess.
I am growing by the second… I am growing prayer by prayer.
-Amen-
By Iridescently Efflorescent
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
Drawing upon the core of my being, I muster up the strength to survive.
Stepping into another plane of existence; one in which I have no capacity to resist toxicity; I am vulnerable.
A juggernaut lies at the end of the daylight hours; soft in temper and yet scourging in it’s pronouncements.
This is a being with no malicious intent; a sentinel guarding the sacred caliber of a spirit under divine instruction.
Darkness pervades in the form of light; I can sense a façade of purity within the confines of my bones.
This fortress that I have traversed into is infected with a murky haze looming just above the skies.
Escape is my only option; if I remain here it will be my demise.
When the juggernaut arrives, trepidation will electrify my soul; it will animate me.
Fear consumes me with every waking second I’m in it’s midst.
-This gargantuan being understands-
Empathy cannot save me however, once the utterances of ancient spirit inflict scathing wounds upon me in the name of humanity.
Attempting to rescue me from the tumult of the planet does not obscure the pain and heartache of compassionate words.
Wisdom lies within this walking tome; statue-esque maiden.
I have used my discernment as a bulwark; protection from wounds of sensitivity lies in detachment from myself.
I have come to realize that supplication does have a purpose.
-To plea with the remnants of a long forgotten world-
I am overwhelmed with euphoria when I realize that my fears have been nothing but stymie.
Fleeting in nature; they whispered to me of my incapacity to reach the heart of a relic growing wiser by the minute.
There is no judgment to be passed and I have been emancipated from the shackles of a foreshadowing past.
It leads to my genesis; the day when I shall be lifted up past all my iniquity.
Until that day, I await the metamorphosis of an ailing planet.
The Juggernaut does have a purpose.
This maiden shall be a beacon amongst the tumult of the seasons.
I shall look to her as a guide and honesty is what shall pervade from her lips.
In trueness she shall bestow her utterances upon me.
Like the sweetest honey, her words will befall my eardrums.
Internalization spurs a chemical reaction within me.
I am changing.
I have been enveloped by blinding rays of light.
The darkness is no match for the spiritual sinew that I possess.
I am growing by the second… I am growing prayer by prayer.
-Amen-
By Iridescently Efflorescent
Jul 29, 2012
Jul 29, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
Words unreleased congeal
Within the agonies of conjecture
Tormented by solid sorrows
Sounds that can not be pacified
Plague my presence
In unannounced pronouncements
Who will be summoned?
By this secret voice
A piercing sorrow?
Our the sensuous meaning of tragedy
The grief of eternal exclusion
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
you are walking the streets
you do not walk the boards anymore
your trousers are frayed, your shoes dusty
and the hard walkways have worn them out
you are not presented in the glorious costumes
and the stage crowns anymore
the illusion is gone, it’s reality
that’s permanent now
you’re the beggar, the recluse, the plain and shadow
you walk down to the shops
and your speech raises eyebrows
where’d he learn to speak like that?
they ask, in whispers, like conspirators on stage
your actions are too lofty, your manner too distant
it threatens them, they must crush you –
so that’s why you’ve learned to blend in as well as you can
those were the days
when they heard your words, and they felt it resonate
when they noted your pronouncements
and there was acknowledgement
but those were the days, a long time back when they
looked at you, and they knew you, and they looked in awe
now the children sneer at the old man,
and when it’s too cold, your nose runs
and you need to **** more often
and the women notice you hobble,
you leave the art of significance
and you learn the art of the indistinct
and you’ve learned
which practice is more difficult:
acting the prominent, or acting the anonymous
*Go, old man, old actor, every dog has its day;
the new breed eats the bones today*
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 6:59 PM UTC
the devil in the details
retain the written
cast off the spoken
like the table scraps from
some dark kings feast
his richly clad hands gripping the meat
with stranglehold
the other clutching the spilled wine
his rages echo in stone hall
pronouncements of beheadings
and tax collectors greedy hand
poor king john and the riddles three
poor king john and his bride to be
poor king john and the fate he did not foresee
it was a bright kingdom
long ago
its glory days faded but still it shone brightly
rich in its fair folk and fertile lands
sit down here by the fire
take your ease
let me spin you a tale
let me weave you a storybook kingdoms dark fall
drink up your wine and steel your heart
for its a tale of a king
of love and lust
betrayal and blood
its a cautionary tale
of a young princess and the bright hopes
that blinded her
to the terrible man she loved
poor king john and the riddles three
poor king john and his bride to be
poor king john and the fate he did not foresee
she had come across the channel waters
in fine sailing ships
stood in the deck expectant eye to the distant shore
in her lace and silks and jewels a three
her hair flowing like a river of dark chocolate
her eyes of crisp blue
she was the finest of maidens
a princess caring and true
the kindest heart and the wisest mind
she thought she was destined to be a queen
but fate has terrible twists cruel and careless
cry now for this sweet princess
poor king john and the riddles three
poor king john and his bride to be
poor king john and the fate he did not foresee
all these years later it is a tale had to speak
so sit yourself down here by the warmth of the fire
gather the courage of your heart
for this is a tale to test the strongest not to break to tears
this is the tale
of king john and the kingdom of the forest
poor king john and the riddles three
poor king john and his bride to be
poor king john and the fate he did not foresee
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 2:09 PM UTC
SURELY A REFLECTIVE TRUTH
By Poor Richard’s Son © September 2013
How certain-there appeared whispered pronouncements which proclaimed the utter emptiness of his lonely state. Such a place where he dwelled, propped upright by an inherent absence of self-knowledge that fleetingly explained and defined his reality. A whispering reality, it seemed, that cried out to the god of raw truths regarding bitter human nature and yet, a sublime presence presented by all he would ever encounter.
An unsettling serenity tasted of a sweet and sour paradox of which he was possessed, captured by the strangely beatific attraction that lay deep within all things grotesque. Astonishingly, flotillas of startling enigma had emerged from within his memories of youth. They came, flowing with the bitter tide of unfulfilled promise. For always there existed a rather twisted reality. And that was all he really had; a sojourn through the veil of an eternal gratitude which had not served him very well at all.
Thus, he quietly peered thru the windows of his pristine prison-once more reaching without reason for yet another promise unfulfilled. There, he stoically stood as a monument to reaching after the unreachable, standing there, halfway through this trial by fire-on his way toward a collision course with failure perhaps, vetted to try once more to survive this proving ground of academic acceptance.
His participation was a living testament to the folly which only the fool would ever really know. Yes, he knew all too well the absolute denial of his ongoing failure to thrive, a failure fueled by the utter blindness that befalls those with the purest of faith. A faith that one fine day his ship would finally roll into the bay; success would surely be within his grasp at last .
So passionately he watched the desolate streets outside the college, through the immaculate window like a tiger in the rain, knowing the thunder and lightning he can’t explain…can never contain…could never retain.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
I am a simple thing.
Reviled and admired.
I do the job requested.
I pose no query, why should I.
Indeed.
When called upon do I not serve.
I am a simple thing.
Devil.
Your hands are my volition.
Your will is my precision.
Your skill is my command.
Yet. I am reviled.
Cast aside. What then is my purpose.
But to speak loudly, shudder and recoil.
My message .
Swift assurance.
Bold pronouncements.
Fools rush in.
How am I to make the choice when you have made me what I am
a servant no more no less. A tool a sluggard at best.
Consider me a shovel in the shed. Do you hate me now. Fear me
Write laws to abolish me. Shout from the halls of anger, slander and deride.
Here I sit in judgment . A construct a conduit of your evil. Your callous machinations.
Most assuredly I am neither fish nor fowl.
Nor villain on the prowl. That is your domain.
I am your shelter in a storm.
a stern judgment for the lawless when all else has failed.
Play the De Guayo.
No quarter asked or given.
My friends. I pray for my own demise.
The day when peace abides.
Never. Nature or nurture.
I pray for my dismissal.
Until such time.
Put me away with safety and know that I am at your beck and call.
Your beck and call.
Yours.
I remain your humble servant.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 3:25 AM UTC
I have discovered
I am a blackmailer
trying to win you
with extravagant gifts
and pronouncements
black pearls to cling
lovingly ‘round your neck
hummingbird pendants
carved by northern artists
proclaiming you to be
“bringer of joy”
long drives to exotic places
where I photograph you,
protesting at first,
then warming up to it
deliciously engaged
delicious photos
selfishly taken
to delight me
when I feel the need of you
Bonaventure Saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:34 AM UTC
18 days left until the end of the world!
We’re down to the wire folks – so get your living in now because in 18 days, all this chaos, selfishness, hate, bigotry, joy, happiness, and beauty will come screeching to a halt.
I wonder if the WORLD – the PLANET knows its end is near? I wonder if it knows that a puny, insignificant species on its face has declared its end and death? I wonder how many times before it’s heard about its end and has kept on rollin’ merrily along?
To think that one species can – and has – imposed its superstitions and god-myths on such an immovable and ancient cosmic body. If you need a definition of arrogance my friend, look no further!
For billions of years this wonderful water-ball has spun its way through the cosmos and has nurtured, raised, and even destroyed countless forms of life upon its face, and yet only one species – amongst the millions that have come and gone, presume to declare its end.
While spiritual and metaphysical voodoo can make grand pronouncements about our doom, we are unique in one other aspect, and that is we are the most intelligent species on earth, and we use our accumulated brilliance to figure out better ways to **** each other, foul the very air we breathe, poison the water which sustains us, and contaminate the soil from which we spring.
So foolish.
So near-sighted.
So ignorant in practice.
So cruel to our mother.
I wonder what makes us – the most intelligent of them all – so incredibly stupid that we spend enough on war every day to eradicate world hunger ten times over, and yet, expect us to believe that in 18 days our world is going to end just because a culture composed of humans ran out a room on a circle of stone?
Pathetic.
Oh silly misguided human animal.
The only thing that’s going to destroy this world – this beautiful, self-protecting, self-correcting, self-balancing world – are the pitiful human animals who don’t even have the humanity to love each other – let alone the earth – enough to lift us higher than a stone-age culture looking at the stars and seeing only themselves.
18 days left before the world ends? I don’t think so. Maybe we’ll do the earth and all its wonderful life-forms a favor and stop the madness we’ve created, and in 18 days finally learn to love again.
© 2012 Michael Hunter
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
Aluminium ladders from the attic creak during forbidden midnight ventures, whilst auditory perceptions of Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy echo within the magical darkness.
Many times, Dolly stood at the edge of the platform and articulated prismatic pronouncements, as the train hurtled along the tracks.
We must permit our nostalgic souls to remain attached by silver chords, as we travail along the corridor of indiscernible planes towards twilight.
Therefore, my slippery soul of simplicity, we must hold up the lantern in this obscure existence. Joe, I have toasted bread by the coal fire within the flickering shadows of overwhelming anticipation. Your carriage awaits.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
In speculating a plumage’s stinging or sorting
yesteryear’s chromosomes glint of antiques
resplendent as rivulets at The Moonlit Square
that shimmered beneath penumbras of fear
A stained moon foreshadowing
Jahan Ara’s Chowk for Silver Wear
The canals blocked, choking with Change
Glistering new arrivals, effusing of Change:
the tryst carries grave integrity within veins
branching across peninsula for pumping reigns
Ours is the Strange Acquiesce
where a fledgling’s plumage unfurls
toward velvety notes of wealth
A perennial disruption of equilibrium
From Smack to Silk Route till Here
Before Iwans, Jhajjharis, or intricate Basti
its plumage swayed from Golden Age
burdened through pronouncements as
Gujarata-Pratihara; Pala; Rashtrakuta:
the peninsula that sustains formidable histories
shall commemorate edifices lost by centuries
Together We Ruminate: What state must it bear this day?
traversed across periods
sorrowed by time
plumage seeks to retire
in search of rhyme
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
the minutes between
midnight and six,
individuals, unique,
each one,
all dears,
old friends.
2:22
3:37
4:11
rhythmic but differentiated
in so far as
each one,
brings me a completely
special, preying
poesy dream,
bittersweet symphony.
the digits of my mobile,
double duty alarming clock,
digits rigid, rounded,
ends slanted,
bold white pronouncements
on a back background.
double identity,
my cell, my clock,
screaming pieces of time,
bullets whizzing
past the sides
of my head,
"awake and listen"
there was a period,
once, when the
body clock was
more accurate
than the tick tock
in Greenwich, England,
precisely awaking at six.
now randomness reigns,
and the county clerk
bids me record
the precise awaking time
and the poem,
therewith associated,
4:47 AM
Seven months ago.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
Take caution, my friend, about joining any club that would extend the courtesy of membership, because
etchings upon our archaeological memory may reap undesirable pronouncements.
If your wings have not yet been clipped, then I implore you to turn the key that abides in the Iron Gate.
Liberty is truly to be found in banishment, and captivity embraces those who are presumed to be socially elite.
The Northern Command has our number written upon the electronic village of global deception, even though undertones are without doubt, seductive.
So, blow your whistles on this day of grey sky.
Your voice has now been heard.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
I have no appetite
for pronouncements, platitudes
declarations, meditations and revelations
no patience for wisdom
and cogitations and much worse
regurgitations
no stomach for moanings and
groanings
musings, and working out meanings
much less about how your groin is today
I'd just like to
(like Renoir, if I may,
just focus and work)
not to be anything, no attempt
to be
just what is natural and easy
play and laugh
and when it's time
just yawn and sleep
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
top 5 things I miss about you:
1) the sunburn on the back of your legs
the
way you flinched at the touch of aloe;
peeling off your skin
layer by layer
2) dancing high in your room to Pulp Fiction;
trying desperately not to wake your parents,
standing in your
driveway as minutes feel like hours
3) our horrific inability to take
a single good photobooth picture
4) driving
driving home from the beach,
sand
coating your mats
sitting in cars writing poems,
while you wrench tires underneath me
pulling into parking garages to photograph
torn stockings against the car’s blue
exterior
your hand on my thigh driving back from Ludlow,
as I am fast asleep
breaking your backseat as I ****** myself into you
you naming it after me
5) your drunken texts;
your colloquial musings at 3 a.m.
your
professions,
your proclamations
waking up your grounded words,
despite your swaying body.
I long for your surprise pronouncements
while I sleep alone 551 kilometers away.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
comfort comes in many forms
scented soft garments against my skin
recollections of your kissses
your eyes, and kind words
audacious pronouncements of Lord Henry
mystic deliria of containing multitudes
melatonin and gilmore girls dvds
at last, sleep crawls into my bed
"i was waiting for you to finish your poem"
she says
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 1:56 AM UTC
All beginnings are beautiful, the French say
Maybe that is why betrayal stings, a finger in a light socket
a lasting burn, like a blister on my foot, my pace is made painful
I walk wounded, stop to try to salve the wound, protect it with the gauze bandage of
"it is over now, he can't hurt you anymore" which bleeds through and needs to be
changed, reminded, advice and commiseration of friends is the antibiotic salve
I look at you and remember a one time mentor and now I watch your behavior
a plastic bag in the wind, your opinions and pronouncements tossed here and there
hour by hour, depending on who is there at the moment to influence you
Shapeshifter you are, talk is too dangerous now
my resentment bubbles over like a hot, shaken, warm soda, even if I try to keep
the cap on, once the froth commences, there is no help, I can't hide it as the liquid
radioactive anger spills forth onto my hand and onto you
So hard for me to accept the death of a relationship
You are still alive and breathing, so how can it be that something is dead?
But there is that dead space between us and a fear of you
in me, and memories, like little sores, in my belly of your abuse
of the wetness of my tears that destroyed the art of my make-up
washed away the eye liner on my bottom lid, as if it was my dignity
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
Once a year, I'm reminded here
on father's day, I have no father near.
My father could not be farther.
Actually, that's not true.
He's in one of the Southern counties of England
but it's distant enough to do.
He has two sons that he chose to have
and raise and support and endow
with all those cultural allegiance mechanisms
that I try to imagine somehow.
Painted their rooms,
changed their sheets
throwing a ball and stuff,
giving them a father that they can observe
doing his worst, best or enough.
I'm a secret secreting jealousy as a crime superfluous to needs
watching all you parented people
making pronouncements on your old Dad's deeds.
Bitter, sour grapes and cynicism are the silent names that come,
"Don't utter or mutter a single word of distain
keep our game a zero sum.
It's not our fault you had no dad
there's no need to rain on our parade!"
I know this poem is digging a hole
but who got you your first *****
Which, I guess gives me license to continue
to go on about the other problems that came
When I was a kid, they talked of a god
and "Father" was his name.
As if it wasn't challenging enough
there's a celestial, all-seeing eye.
I found daily life to be complex as it was
without attempting to anthropomorphize the sky.
Intimidated, un-encouraged without a male adult to hide behind,
I learned I was a ******* without belonging
while mother ******* raised their own kind.
But, I guess it's time to turn around
face the future face-on with the rest
I've two sons now, who know that they are wanted
Glad I typed this crap off my chest.
Sorry if I offended anyone with a dad
Just wanted to put words to my own case,
it was not written with any malice in mind
just like your annual slap round my face.
...
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 3:42 AM UTC
There were no grand pronouncements
No standing ovations or help desk waiting
No nurse on standby for a stand-up guy
No friend at Jack’s bar to pat him on the back
And send him home in a taxi cab
There was no Monday mail that wished him well
No national pride that made him swell
Just this hell a sorry state for sale
And no one he wanted to tell
So, with nothing to show
He let the bullet go and watched the blood flow
No fire alarms sounded, no ambulance rounded the corner
No other mourners other than the quiet night coroner
Nothing left but an empty room and a short obit
That gave his name cause of death and that was it
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC