A river of sorrow floods my tongue
spilling grief into another goodbye,
too many sons of art are dying.
There are no more songs or second acts.
Silence slams against legacy and I search
through digital clouds seeking comfort.
Memories mix with tears as agony
follows the scent of decaying roses
to mounded dirt collecting headstones.
Death will come to each soul drawing breath,
but its timing is a bitter wind when it comes
to pens still full of ink and music notes left unsung.
Comments
Hank
Steve K.
sad, real but great analogy.
reminder to live write sing now, despite the busy schedules, so the ink and the note doesn't die, even if we may.
It isn't even fair
Idols for us they were
But then think about it
It's our generation.
We are dying with them
..
The reason why I write about Malcolm Young so much, why he breaks my heart more than any of the others isn't only because he had such a profound impact on me from the time that I was 12 years old and very troubled. It's the fact that not only is his body sick and dying, but he has had to suffer so terribly in losing every single memory from his lifetime. His eyes went from looking very alert and aware if rather sad to looking resigned to a hopeless fate but not wanting to trouble others, to looking terrified and bewildered. He may not have been a perfect person, but he had a good heart and wanted to make others happy. He doesn't deserve such a wretched fate.
Also, having watched my father's cognition decline due to vascular dementia, having my aunt endure dementia, and having taken care of people with dementia for approximately 25 years, I feel on a personal level that I would find it to be the worst of bad fates.
In any case, we've lost a lot of good ones. Your poem speaks to that so very well. <3
This says it all for me. Such great acts will never be followed.