Leslie Philibert (6th March 1954 / London, England)
At My Own Funeral
Bells. Cold air. Damp earth.
Carrying my own coffin as if
divided and watching myself from outside.
Throw masks into an empty grave.
I have been caught leaving a shop
with a bag of stolen apples.
Surrounded by dropped faces and lost tones.
The air cold. Earth damp. Bells.
Comments about this poem (At My Own Funeral by Leslie Philibert )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings