People Die, Friends Leave
“People die, friends leave”
This morbid truth
Said by a forgotten someone
Said by a forgotten someone
Advice should not be given
Unless asked
Even then it can be dangerous
Soon it will be April first
Fool’s Day
To be a fool is not an illness
Rather it is a characteristic of humans
We are all capable of this malady
The shadows in the room
Are carefully considered
Add character
Daylight creeps in
Casts shadows in the room
Great care is taken
Goals are set
Working as though in a trance
Eight days…
And I have hardly started
I continue as if I am led
The muse instructs me
March 25, 2018
17 comments:
Yes, we each have our moments of being a fool. I have many scalding memories, lol. I love how your work leads you and the muse instructs you.
Especially love the first stanza... I fear when that will happen (aging)
This brought tears to my eyes. Beautifully poigant.
It is true that people die, that friends leave. It is also true that
we can do nothing about these realities. Thank goodness for a muse
that instructs...that is a blessing!
Luv the harmony of a muse that leads and one who understands
Thank you for dropping by my Sunday Standard today Annell
much love...
Lovely piece!
Human foibles and frailties - and how we interact and move through them - until such time as we either, leave ... or die. There is a lot of places to go to, in this piece.
To create, we have to have something moving through us, and I enjoyed the wisps here--the adage, the advice, the recognition of the human condition and the work in these shadows. Bravo!
Your muse leads you....I like that. And yes, we're all fools at some point.
Oh i miss my muse... forget guiding, has completely vanished leaving me like a fool!
I am ever grateful to my Muse, he or she is a good lass. We both have a good laugh and she likes Australian wine!
Thank God for the Muse!
every stanza has that little dose of wisdom imbued in it. just wonderful.
but i will listen to the muse anytime. :)
Excellent use of the words. Some have a greater propensity for the said malady than others. They usually are vulnerable and have a kind heart... a prize for predators.
"Eight days" is the sort of count the grieving use, each day that fraught. The poem doesn't get specific about the harrow but the delicacy of observation feels great fraught by whatever that is. (Great irony this year, April Fool's and Easter coinciding.)
Death happens... To get even, we should happen to life with all our hearts.
When my mother died, I counted first the days, then the weeks, then the months, and then the first year. It has now been 15 years since that fateful day. The speaker in your poem got to eight days. I've heard of a book called Eighth Day of Creation. Perhaps on the eighth day something new is created in the speaker's heart, something that will slowly displace the shock and grief.
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