The stars themselves will grow weary in time
how much more then, we, where there are none?
It is less, I suggest, about time than timelessness.
Think of the blind; they do not see black, they do not see.
So let those who can, see that, and take comfort,
if it is comfort that they seek.
This is part of a longer poem that, after review, I realized was actually two poems inadvisedly squished together, the whole being much less than the sum of the parts. Hopefully, now, this poem can breathe a tad easier, being on its own.
Thank you for reading It is not like this, death. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
The photograph was taken in a moment of sheer boredom while being in my car and on hold trying to talk with some company. Can you figure out what it is? To see my photography blog, please visit the Book of Bokeh.
Photograph, poem, and notes © John Etheridge; all rights reserved. The poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Work 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original written work found on this site unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is © John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com. The photograph is not licensed for use in any way without the expressed consent of its creator.