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making of dirt
by Charlie Morgan
settling in a heap of marrow-dry bones,
we will be stepping-stones for futures
to come, flourish. then properly, die
away as is the condition of living.
die, make room for more.
it is a duty, to expire.
pleasure, a life lived.
shuffle the days like life is draw poker,
turning around it's as though the janitor
drags the bucket. making noise, spilling.
laughing, you think the joke's on him.
suggested to Everyman by Hemingway;
'don't ask for whom the bell tolls,
it tolls for thee.'
05/22/2008 Posted on 05/22/2008
Copyright © 2026 Charlie Morgan
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by A. Paige White on 05/22/08 at 05:19 PM I really adore this dirt-y little poem, Chaz. Great job at putting together such an insightful scoop on the "dirt" of our situations. :-D |
| Posted by Alison McKenzie on 05/23/08 at 04:35 PM Yes, the organics of our human remains return to dust. None of us ever makes it out alive. |
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