Ted Sheridan

*knock, Knock

We die from within and just like our statues
We dedicate to our eternal memory,
So many trinkets sculpted
From concrete, brass, plaster and wood.

We rot; inside, outwards
And so when Death
Is finally displayed on our faces,
Our friends
Are suddenly free to express with sheer amazement

That they never really knew us
All that well…



2009 © T.S.

Poem Submitted: Monday, July 13, 2009
Poem Edited: Tuesday, July 14, 2009

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Comments about *knock, Knock by Ted Sheridan

  • Ken E Hall (9/8/2010 8:29:00 AM)

    Anyone who thinks he has more friends than fingers on one hand is a fool, you work it out so well regards

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  • Vaughn Bekker (5/24/2010 11:51:00 PM)

    a very diferent aproach to life and death, nice write though

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  • Obed Souza (7/16/2009 1:34:00 PM)

    Your points of view are totally different from mine, but you are an excellent writer.
    We start to die the day we are born...

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  • Sandra MartyresSandra Martyres (7/14/2009 12:04:00 AM)

    You are right and this is a lovely true write...

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  • Emancipation Planz (7/13/2009 11:27:00 PM)

    ? Tis me... That they never really knew us all that well…
    (yes.. I know that.. but, I love to answer your knock...) ... nice to see you again.. aroha, Deana

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