Dreaming Of The Dead - Poem by Martin TURNER
From time to time the dead come
for their allotted meeting like prisoners,
jostling, and sit on the bench to wait.
The hands of the carver
recognise each face.
My father is among them.
To him I go first, assuring him
that he is always first for me,
as if he needed
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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