In remembrance of good poets

 

I curse you with life

the thought it entails

the women you’ll never have

the fruits always out of reach.

 

Still, it is better you had lived

stuttering along time’s cobbled streets

your stench a perfume

polluting many into misunderstanding.

 

Without you nothing would happen.

For as has been said:

“Poetry makes nothing happen.”

that being precisely the point

the pendulum swings by,

space but a nothing filled,

time transfixed by your

slowly swinging stick.

 

Keep reaching my friends.

Your tears to tear at the ground

and become a rose that dies.

Keep reaching my friends,

no disguise, no lies.

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