Dying By The Sea


All this will be okay, but even so
I think all of life is much the same;
same stimulus, same thoughts and
feelings; same startling light on
window panes.
Nevermind what Larkin said
about wanking at ten past three:
we well deserve our chemicals,
are all hypocrites for jealousy.
Empty lives tick by, clocks fastened
to the failing wrists. A shimmer
pulls us back again away from bliss.
A Count dying, bloodied, on the sand.
The stains, the lapping sound of water.
Here is the rarest death yet lived;
an image of a crowded beach;
his eyes revealing crowded faces
bunched above him, looking,
frowning. And then
without words,
and just at the last minute,
every face and frame back away
out of sight; leave his body
on the shore, his face tilted
up to the hot sky;
no human folly in his way,
no peopled landscape in his eye.
Just the bright blue sunny summer sky,
just glowing.
Hooded eyes with
thick grey rimming which
take in every inch of the azure;
closing on a paradise of Heaven
that lifts his soul away from here.

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