He died.
No fanfare, no great revelation
No seeping darkness, no blinding light
He did not see his life
nor did he witness his death
His tombstone reads
"Here lies a man"
But no the epitaph lies
Nothing rots in the earth but
A mannequin doppleganger
stretched skin and white and waxen
There is no beauty
in his death.
There is no lover
tossing herself in the grave
There is no child
asking confused questions
There is no mother
giving confused answers
The weather is mild
no tempest, nor fog, nor blazing sun
There are 4 clouds, perhaps 5
and 7 mourners, perhaps 6
There is no beauty
in his death.
No manuscript was left unwritten
for the world to ponder
No masterpiece found
in his basement, appraised for millions
No genius left scribbled
the last ejaculate of his death throes
There is no beauty
in his death.
No funeral pyre
like a final fist to the sky
No tortured multitude
carrying their great hero
No flower sprung from the
last blood along the ground.
There is no beauty
in his death.
He passed as he lived
quietly without event
We mourn here today
in likewise fashion
The service ends
his brother gives a eulogy
There is a mumble
We all go our separate ways
We will be at work tomorrow
We will keep unscathed
There is no beauty
in his death.
Night fell on the
field of graves
The silence punctuated
only by a lone engine.
I found the stone
once more in the dark.
As the man did not remain
Neither did the A
There is no beauty
in our death.
No fanfare, no great revelation
No seeping darkness, no blinding light
He did not see his life
nor did he witness his death
His tombstone reads
"Here lies a man"
But no the epitaph lies
Nothing rots in the earth but
A mannequin doppleganger
stretched skin and white and waxen
There is no beauty
in his death.
There is no lover
tossing herself in the grave
There is no child
asking confused questions
There is no mother
giving confused answers
The weather is mild
no tempest, nor fog, nor blazing sun
There are 4 clouds, perhaps 5
and 7 mourners, perhaps 6
There is no beauty
in his death.
No manuscript was left unwritten
for the world to ponder
No masterpiece found
in his basement, appraised for millions
No genius left scribbled
the last ejaculate of his death throes
There is no beauty
in his death.
No funeral pyre
like a final fist to the sky
No tortured multitude
carrying their great hero
No flower sprung from the
last blood along the ground.
There is no beauty
in his death.
He passed as he lived
quietly without event
We mourn here today
in likewise fashion
The service ends
his brother gives a eulogy
There is a mumble
We all go our separate ways
We will be at work tomorrow
We will keep unscathed
There is no beauty
in his death.
Night fell on the
field of graves
The silence punctuated
only by a lone engine.
I found the stone
once more in the dark.
As the man did not remain
Neither did the A
There is no beauty
in our death.