Good Old Mother Death

Good old Mother Death

For at the ends of our troubles

We can run into her arms

Sleep the endless sleep

And dream of better things


These harlequin masks I've worn for so long

They won't come off of my face

Every day, with different people

A separate reflection looks back at me


I do so many things

That I don't want to do

“Oh be careful little eyes,

Oh be careful little ears”

For what we've experienced

Will never leave us


Why do I want people around me

When all I do is push them away

Why do I build myself up

Only by tearing others down?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This was on my phone since forever, wanted to post it so I could clear up the space

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S74rw4rd's picture

I have been reading the Poet,

I have been reading the Poet, Wallace Stevens, since October 12, 1978.  One of his greatest poems, Sunday Morning, contains the line, "Death is the mother of beauty."  Your poem made me think back to that; and any poem that can channel Wallace Stevens as I read it is, in my mind, a mighty fine poem indeed.  I applaud your accomplishment.