Christopher Withers (UK)
become full stop
the dead lie dreamless in their cribs,
life leached out but never missed -
apart from those whose memory serves
realities memes, and sounds and words.
each death subtracts from friends and kin,
a part of ego now caves in,
so loss of love and self's support,
feeds the shadow: always worn.
Is grief on death about those lost
whose place in time has become full stop?
or is it guilt, shadow fed,
of all we meant yet left unsaid?
Comments about this poem (become full stop by Christopher Withers )
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