Would that it were not, I knew that you were dead.
Only common people speak of having ‘passed’.
It wasn’t anything the poor presenters said,
but something in the eyes of those who spoke, spoke out instead.
And listening I watched the shadow that your passing cast
unwittingly, the tension in the furrowed brows, the vast
void, the vacuum, that must be filled with words, the dread,
the meaning looks. They kept it up for hours, and I observed aghast.
Would that it were not, I knew that you were dead.
And knew that we’d accept the stories we were fed,
Because adrift we must hold fast
to that which seems good, and go where we are led.
Only common people speak of having passed
but we are commoners, conservatives who love the past
and there must wallow when the lost, collective head
finds it cannot grasp what must be grasped.
But something in the eyes of those who spoke, spoke out instead
and cast a spanner in the spinning spokes, though did not tread
where fools go, their dance outclassed
the bitter one, clod plodding round its long made bed.
And listening I watched the shadow that your passing cast
upon a deeper one, and felt the icy blast
of winter, when daily bread
cannot be got, nor prayer that it be given sent, and one must fast
sans hope, before the table spread.
Would that it were not.
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