No country for young men

Upon hearing that another young man

A friend of the family, under thirty,

Has taken his own life, by his own hand,

I stop to think. I have no other way. To cope.

Maybe, this whole insincere malarky of 'modern life'

Drove him to the rope, to the sharpened knife.


She is born who is going to decorate my death,

But I am old and certain things are fixed, but, dear God,

Not this, please dear God, no, not this.

 Is He  laughing at you, at me? 

Steve was found swinging on tippy-toes,

under an old beech tree, he'd slashed his wrists

to make a thorough job of it

his hair and eyes were just the same

as when he was a boy.

His body will soon be  buried or cremated

On a day much like any other but not, by God,

For his poor mother, no, not for his poor mother.


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◄ A small truth

The bringer of plurabilities ►


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John Marks

Wed 10th Jul 2019 22:21

Thanks Leon. Some poems you choose to write; others you have to write; this was one of them

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Wed 10th Jul 2019 16:00

unbelievably amazed how you have dealt with such a difficult subject

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