*knock, Knock Poem by Ted Sheridan
*knock, Knock
We die from within and just like our statues
We dedicate to our eternal memory,
So many trinkets sculpted
From concrete, brass, plaster and wood.
We rot; inside, outwards
And so when Death
Is finally displayed on our faces,
Our friends
Are suddenly free to express with sheer amazement
That they never really knew us
All that well…
2009 © T.S.
Your points of view are totally different from mine, but you are an excellent writer. We start to die the day we are born...
? Tis me... That they never really knew us all that well… (yes.. I know that.. but, I love to answer your knock...) ... nice to see you again.. aroha, Deana
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/23/2024 7:43:27 PM # 1.0.0.1119
Anyone who thinks he has more friends than fingers on one hand is a fool, you work it out so well regards