I guess there's nothing really left to mourn.

Honestly speaking, it's been quite tough,

Trying to mourn an epitaph.

For me, poetry was only just dawning

When I wrote that piece called "Good Mourning!".

Went something like "Thus goes 3F out the door,

An apple eaten with its core".

For the life of me, I can't recall

The rest of the poem, at all, at all!

That was my best,

Unlike the rest,

Which I struggle to write

But don't sound right.

An artist I like to think myself,

As if in storage on some shelf,

But someday when I make it big

I shouldn't want to have to dig

For my works in order to catalogue,

And some maybe caught in some bog,

Never to surface again!

Oh, the products of my tortured brain,

Like dandelions, careless blown

Far and away have they all flown!

back to [ eyesite ]