My past readers know of my
near death experience, the one when I met my long-dead mother, but this
one is not about that, not really, it’s brand new, another.
Most
prompted poets, the bards of this April, won’t write of themselves,
they’ll speak of another, an old friend, a parent, a sister or brother.
But, for me, those odes were written before, I don’t feel the need to say anymore.
Instead, I’m inspired to think about me, about after I’m gone, how it will be.
Some friends will cry, others will pray, but what will they write, what will they say?
If anything’s uttered, as my life they recall, and if I’m able to hear from above,
what I hope that I hear, now above all, will be talk of who loved me, and who I did love.
My past readers know of my near death experience, the one when I met my long-dead mother, but this one is not about that, not really, it’s brand new, another.
Most prompted poets, the bards of this April, won’t write of themselves, they’ll speak of another, an old friend, a parent, a sister or brother.
But, for me, those odes were written before, I don’t feel the need to say anymore.
Instead, I’m inspired to think about me, about after I’m gone, how it will be.
Some friends will cry, others will pray, but what will they write, what will they say?
If anything’s uttered, as my life they recall, and if I’m able to hear from above,
what I hope that I hear, now above all, will be talk of who loved me, and who I did love.