My death will not warrant the commission
of statues or inspire effigies burnt in my memory,
there will be no funeral pyres to commemorate
my great sacrifice nor will the weeping sun set fire
to the stars.
It will come, as it does for all men, unceremoniously, in the brightest shade of black, to feed on my universe. It
will deliver to the table yet another miscreant
to break bread with angels.
My death will not be quick, it will linger,
it will pass like the evening sun peering
over the horizon one last time – enough time
to make a solemn vow
to watch over the young, enough time
to make a solemn vow
to watch over the young
RC is a poet who is still finding his voice – a work in progress.