PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I'm dying.
This body plans to fail me,
regardless of positive attitude
or strength of hope held.

Yet still, children play in parks.
Cars rustle by on the streets.
People making their plans
for places they plan to be.

Did you know that dusk
falls despite the warm sun?
Fresh fruit spoils and bread
left out learns to be mould.

One day, when the silence
is so loud it hurts the ears,
I'll be away from this place.
Perhaps with God, perhaps not?

How do we manage to
pretend that death is never
going to come? That we
are always going to be
encased in our shells
of decaying, empty skin.

I'm dying.
That is not an opinion.
That is not an option.
It is fact.
Reality.
The way it shall be.

Yet still, children play in parks.
Cars rustle by on the streets.
People making their plans
for places they plan to be.

Some of the people, the
ones who knew me, shall
gather at my grave.
Tell each other what a pity.
What a shame.
What a waste.
What a sad thing it is.

Will they remember
the smiles I had
when I was with them?