WHO TELL THEM
It is our stories that are told
and we who tell them.
We who have the campfires
who being flesh and bone
feel the warmth
feel the cold
are in the front line
of that ever battle
for survival
or, more exactly, in perennial
reserve
we left to ponder,
honour, remember, feel
as much empathy as
a human
being can feel
and yet
we do not
there are nothing beyond
the barest of lists
of all those lights
that were snuffed, all
who disappeared which anomaly we justify
in golden terms, speaking of
the space and capacity
and love
in Heaven
but, staring into the campfire,
I sense out in the cold darkness
great absence
present those forever outside
looking in
many as molecules, so
many, many, many
and why
we are not there too
why we are here
and now got so crazy, crazy lucky
we
dare not ask and
thus never do
this a tale
here right now
as we do tell them
poems 2 die for 