Death
Death! Death! And more Death!
Road carnage, fire and suicide,
The hungry maw of the sea!
No catalysts for poesy.
Not for me, catastrophe.
I shouldn't write at all!
Had I a head less full of tragedy,
I’d pen something frivolous,
Even mad or scurrilous,
But gloom and doom won’t go away.
I shouldn’t write at all!
If I could rid my mind of tragedy,
I’d write some Ha Ha Ha! Hee Hee Hee!
So every one might laugh with me.
As no other theme comes easily,
I shouldn’t write at all!
Yet, how else can I express my thoughts,
And clear morbidity from my soul?
The answer lies in poetry,
A subtle kind of therapy.
Look now! I’m writing after all!
© Vi Woodhouse
(First published in gazette January 2005)
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