Sunday’s Poetry Post

STILL

 

The dead can’t see

Sniff, hear, sip, feel.

There’s nowhere to be

There’s nothing that’s real.

 

They’ve escaped life’s sorrow,

Not anxious about tomorrow.

The dead don’t cry,

Wonder when they die.

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About John Northcutt Young

I write. Remember making-up stories from spelling words in the fifth grade. A journalism degree followed. Thanks for looking.
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