Your death will be
Televised,
But we wish that it be
After many a long year
Living with us.
You poets are a strange
Breed, you know.
Alien minded folk,
My wife says,
But she's bitter.
Stick around and
Take it all in
As your kind does.
Suffer with us.
Yes, die a million times
For us
That is your gift
You line-crosser
You defiant rhymer
Of things never said,
You melody-grabber
Fishing always
In your silence
Our silence, too.
I see you there
And we left you there
To shiver and to know
So that you might
Love and come
To praise
Every corner of our
Lush God-blessed land
Every canteen and
Drunkard
Every disdain for man
As well as every
Tenderness
To hold and greet
With brotherhood
the slim and soft
As well as the calloused
Hand
And to see
What spills out
Of all mens eyes,
To talk to dogs
To pay more attention
To the sky and
The birdsong
For Christ's sake!
To write and register
Life
For life's sake
If not for Christ's.
Maybe we won't read it
And maybe no one
Will give you a hug
For it.
No one will ever say
"Thank you".
That is what makes it
So beautiful,
You fool.
You addict of love
You believer of voodoo
You weaver
You truth seeker
You grand deceiver
You make believer.
Write until you die
And leave for us
Notes about
Who you were
Who we were
Pretend that God
Is letting you do
this Silliness
for some reason
Pretend he listens
Pretend,
Perhaps
It is He
Who writes
That perhaps it is
He
Who enjoys your life.
Until then,
Trust we are all
Doing our part
And you are one of our
Silent secrets
And, yes,
In our own way we do
Love you, too,
From the bottom
Of our hearts.
Concerning what lay
There at the bottom
Of our hearts
That is for folk
Like you to know
So that we may
One day find out.
Thanks again,
And be well,
Will you?
