I can't think of a title for this

Do not say they sleep. They're dead,
And do not see them passing from
This bloodstained earth to somewhere
Else, and know, however much we loved
Them, and we did; my God, they were
The better pieces of ourselves, that they
Are gone, and we, though hollowed out
With grief, will rise in time because we
Must, and scar up so we can go on.
We'll cease to notice who is missing,
Mostly, though, at times, their names
Will come to mind, and we will wonder
What would have become of us and them,
If they weren't dead.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 23 times
Written on 2012-12-17 at 12:15

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