Dead Whatever

clipart for Dead Whatever

 

                           We sift the streambed’s squishy

 

                           acres, absorbing what is

                           sometimes known, what’s guessed

 

                           at; what lingers in a long refrain;

                           what sings our story:

 

                           the sum of our remembered past;

                           notes of our futility; talk

 

                           in rich, reductive measures. What’s

                           not resisted pushes down. We

 

                           live as ably as we can, too many

                           cures are badly counted.

 

                           Worlds dismissed are restless tomes,

                           fumes we dance a lung across.    

 

                                                                           © Diane Beaty

 

 

Please note: Again, the poem is mine, and the photo used to accompany this post is a clipart photo. Unfortunately, I don’t have the photographer’s name.

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