Death. - Poem by Ann Beard
I cannot choose the season
nor the moment I may die
But with absolute contentment
I will find my fathers home.
I cannot bare the very thought,
of bidding you a last goodbye
as every part you knew of me,
turn’s cold as if to stone.
So my children be prepared
for me to shed this frail persona.
Weaknesses - like petals dipped
in flippancy of tone.
And I will join the changing seasons
Dappled shade - crisp winter sky
and hide in lines of poetry.
Words strung as beads,
or set in stone.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You