Reflection Upon Dying
Years slip, rain, leaves. Is it love that stays, to grow and pose Its questions? Hands, open, show no weapon, Sign the frontier Of our vulnerable selves. Deep in the heart there is passion and, yes, pain. Memory, striving for a life of its own, Seeks to brand the transient heart. (You can see: I'm trying to be like Emily: Lean and learned, but my sentences do not curve To meet the rhyme.) How will we know the end? Will they come, white coats With badges: the end has come? Will the hired attendants, Feel no real remorse beyond The official records of remorse crafted, Upon recyclable paper with disposable pens? James Bolner, Sr. Baton Rouge, LA

Copyright ©1997 James Bolner, Sr.