Divide
I’ve looked into dying eyes
too often.
I’ve heard the sounds of dying
far too often.
They show me nothing.
There is nothing signified.
The touch of clutching hands,
the feel of cradled head:
These carry no weight,
press no coin of knowledge
with value to the palm
of one whose dying is later.
2 thoughts on "Divide"
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This. This is a very good poem.
Thanks, Coleman!