I relish the fact of my demise,
slow or fast, no compromise,
I just hope my children become millionaires
when my work finally gets known,
and I’m six foot under, worth a motza,
yet penniless when alive,
at least I haven’t cut off my ear,
or become a drunk and not survived.
Just hope I go in my sleep,
reaping another dream,
gleaning on the astral plain,
the bleak and colorful scenes of my life,
laughing at my stupidity,
or perhaps my morbidity
thrown amid all those human souls,
and me not one at all.
You never know, my words might last a bit,
a few thoughts worth repeating,
for someone else’s gleaning,
and even if one soul knows
a little more than before,
I’ll feel it in my astral robes,
it was worth the pain I felt,
and the penniless end I was dealt.
I wonder who’ll come to my funeral,
who would say a few nice words,
probably just my kids alone,
everyone I know is overseas, how absurd,
connection on the internet,
my cyber friends and I,
arms length in thousands of miles,
and never a cup of tea.
But what will I care, my memory losing fast,
as my soul arranges the next life,
and with whom and when I’ll start,
as I’ll meet up with a few old friends,
and laugh about past strife,
I wonder what beers they serve up there,
sure hope its the one’s I like.
Regardless, there must be a club for old poets,
looking forward to Poe, Thomas and Blake,
the odd ale and comparing notes
would be a fait de complete,
and I’d be writing down anecdotes
till they come to get me,
for the next ride,
just hope I remember and can write…shit!
Tony DeLorger © 2018
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