Writings / Poetry: George Elliott Clarke

Wisdom

 
We pass—as we like. Unsurpassed graveyards
Expect us—just like our mothers once did.
Without respect, we tire, retire; our breaths
Soon date, expire. We staff our epitaphs.
As scripted, we find the stars cool to ash,
The sun drops, blood red, into black sackcloth,
And all the wind can do is cry. Pity
How without Solace is soulless flesh….
Grief wells up, washes out our hearts, but tears
Pass away—just as shallow as shadows.
Eventually, we all crave lilies.
All Hope is privately cruel. Suffering
Demands a facile enthusiasm.
Something renders our desires fraudulent.