So in case you didn’t notice, that whole thing about writing short stories two years ago didn’t work out.
Needless to say, I’m as surprised as you are that I’m posting something. More so, probably. It’s somewhat less surprising that it’s a poem that’s short and required very little effort. Lots of thought, yes, but very little effort.
The orange ones are the stoic dying–
With a life well-lived–
And ready to meet
With a quiet, contemplative smile.
The yellow ones are the restless dying–
The ones who wake up
In the middle
Of the night–
Not ready, not ready.
The red ones are the defiant ones–
Who run–headlong–into Death’s arms–
Out in a Blaze of Glory.
You will not tell them when–or even that–they will die;
They will tell you.
And all the while, the
Green, green pine trees
Not 100% satisfied with this one, but it’s been churning in my mind lately, so I decided to stop trying to force myself to remember lines and just write it the fuck down. Mere contemplation on fall, leaves, death, suicides, and the gods. Hope you enjoy.