little doubters, little lords

We’re all death-haunted,
Death-haunted all,
Death-haunted each one,
Right here on the grassy earth
Blazing green in the sun.

Warm air, cool breeze,
Allergy sneeze.

Death is on the wind,
Death will not rescind,
Can’t be fooled by summer
Or dodged by any kind of weather.

The eyes that regard
Dazzling greensward
Are already half dead in my head.

Old Uncle Death is remote, however,
In the lit up eyes
Of the little shouters;
Each and every one
Born into the arms of the world
Inveterate little doubters
In the existence of death
For each, for all,
They’ve nought but cheek
For something so weak and small.

They laugh away that bogey
And cry for lesser ills;
Small immortals who
Gamble a gambol on the hills,
Never slow to call it woe
When a little of their blood spills.

Little lords and ladies of the universe
Testing out their wills.

Little do they know.

And still, they know more than I,
The guy with the eyes
Already half dead in my head.


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(photo by Flannery O’Kafka)




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