To Ernest, Sylvia and Vincent


To Ernest Sylvia and Vincent

 

You make me write this poem,

you with art in your hands.

Was it because no one cared Vincent?

Was it because they cared Ernest?

Was it your stated goal Sylvia?

Was it the pain of life,

or the meaningless shuffle to chaos,

the eons that can overcome your work?

 

Ah it was that fish

that fish that turned to bones.

 

Your greatest

is no greater than the single flower

blooming and fading.

 

I must kick your bones.

My worth is  tiny beside your greatness

as your greatness is tiny beside the eons.

I must kick your bones.

 

Life will kill you soon enough.

 

When I see the momentary flower

I am carried by it

to bliss.

 

When I see your flower

I cry.

 

david michael jackson     June 1, 2012   dave@artvilla.com

 

 

 


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