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It is my turn and again I rise
to speak your praise, a poet of the dead.
I find this not a lofty gift as if given
by the Gods/Goddess/All that is.
I am not pleased with this opportunity.
And yet I chant of peace
and harmony and highlight the lives of those ended...
snuffed like a candle's flame after sex,
when we closed our eyes in desperation
and dreamed of making love.
I speak of blessings. Given, regained,
lost and often as not re-found,
and new beginnings, a chance to carry on.
Shout your leavings but you will not return.
And I sit, weary and worn,
until it is my turn again.
Copyright © 2003. Used with author permission.
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