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.

John Northcutt Young

From The Complete Poems of BREVITY


About John Northcutt Young

I write. Remember making-up stories from spelling words in the fifth grade. A journalism degree followed. Thanks for looking.
This entry was posted in death, poem and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Still

  1. John Northcutt Young says:

    Reblogged this on Brevity.

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