Poetry

A Jackal On My Grave

The curtain of Fall
Too soon falls
In the middle
Of the third act
The lights dim
Darkness hiding
A good actor
In a bad play
Smothering his final words
He bows
Expecting no roses
No standing cheers
No encore
No bravo
In early dark
Shadows dancing
Way too early
Mistress of light
Will have her way
To dance in the yard
Like a jackal on my grave.

 

YOUR FACE

Every now and then
I go walking
silently
no words left
and every once in a while
somewhere hidden
deep down inside my mind
scrambled by
the hands of time
I find your face
and then
I walk on.

 

 

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