Stored within depths of ancient grieving,
and inked on parchment of my memory,
are eulogies for those I love,
but yes, they are still breathing.
Death is a vague old friend of mine,
a visitor of preemptions;
swallowing the dregs of my best bourbon,
while blabbering on about redemption.
I forgive the preaching,
but not the bourbon,
and vow to have my own words written ,
before he reads his next sermon.
Death expects too much, too soon,
and time takes what remains;
memories leave too little, too late,
as shadows fill a broken cup
and a loving beggar calls his tune.
Copyright 2019 by C. Max Schenk - all rights reserved, unlike my mind, which I explore with reckless abandon