João Tomaz Parreira

Mister Lazarus

Dying/Is an art, like everything else.
Sylvia Plath

He sits on ancestral door
from where its eyes
eat a few dreams

can’t spring
into streets of world
its weak legs

its
tired eyes
read the Job's book.

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Poem Submitted: Monday, November 12, 2007
Poem Edited: Sunday, April 24, 2011

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Robert Frost

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening



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