Autobiography Of Death Poem by Richard Weissman

Cold winter's white blanket has bled grey-black from Jersey's sooty shores,
Here 'neath shadows of Wall Street's towered sky,
Here in Richmond, where ne'er he lived,
Here his aspirations lay lifeless,
His words - voiceless,
His legacy - meaningless.

No tears shed here in Richmond, when Kaddish dirge is done,
No mourners weep the poet, once his song is sung,
And though his life was nought,
At least with truth he sought,
To place perspective still,
Upon this Richmond hill,
And though his words contained no wing,
At least his lips one time didst sing,
"Dark Voices, Exorcise, Dark Deeds."

(1991)