Little Death

Your body is finite –
and within it, your mind
is bound to decay,
long after hate or hurt or apathy
accompany your meditations
on our varied acts of congress.

You will not survive
in books or public memory,
and nor will a half-page
celebrate your life-span.

My body, too, is finite;
and within it, my brain
commands impulses
and reactions
fetishised since first record.
And these, too, are finite,
as are all things, flowing or dry –
and better that it is so.

This is transitory, but it is:
graspable, physical,
our forms celebrate their tenure.

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~ by David Heslin on 04/06/2011.

One Response to “Little Death”

  1. Writing love poems is hard, if not to be avoided at all costs. What hasn’t already been said a hundred times, or a hundred times more beautifully and sincerely than you, dear amateur poet, could ever be capable of?

    There’s certainly nothing new in this one.

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