.dead. by Sonja Benskin Mesher

I am not a silent poet

&

we walked on up near the copper mine , a darker place.                          got to thinking.

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it comes as no suprise. often ill they die.                                   it is the way.     it is not sad.

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we are sensed with  loss.                                                                                 that includes you.

he says that’s where the wind comes from,                                       to go most everywhere.

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probably do not miss him.                       he was not around us much, well  not at all really.

he buggered off.   no inspiration then.                                                   yet.   he was my dad.

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some day i will carry the bones inside.

dead

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