b!

Hometown:

bloomington

Statement:

i write.  not very well, but there it is.

Background:

I enjoy photography and drawing and painting, and I write what comes into my head as an artist... 

does that make sense?

Upcoming:

in progress

Other:

A Funeral Sestina

Dying, Deathly, Dead

To the marrow of his quiet bones

and I did not,

would not cry.

For I could not help but think,

this is my funeral and one doesn’t cry at their own wake.

Alas, I could not grieve.

from the moment that I woke.

No matter how I tried,

I could not muster sympathy for the newly dead, but for their surviving loved ones,

who are left nothing but dry bones,

And because of this I could not dare

to think of grieving or even crying.

Because I know it’s proper that we should try to cry

Aloud to all I tried.  And hoped to wake

the ungrateful dead but of course it would be apropos to even think

Not of the deceased, but o how poor and wretched, are those left by the dead,

but woe is us, for they take their leave, and we are left with bones.

Alas we are the wretched ones.

We, the pitiful and aggrieved loved ones,

Left behind to mourn, to cry,

Amid a bed of bones

In hopes that they may wake,

From that deep and endless slumber, the dead

They leave and make us think

Aloud about those whom we grieve without a sensible thought.

And makes us question, who really are the wretched ones?

Should we really mourn the dead?

What of ourselves?  Forcing tears, crying

Out, when do we awake?

And here we stand among the bones

the dried up, morbid, remnant bones,

and still we imagine, and still we think,

oh woe is the person, the star of the wake,

But really are they the pitiful ones?

The ones that we should try to cry

For?  They have got it easy.  (the dead.)

For they are at the end of their journey, they’re dead, they are but bones.

And we are left to cry, to think,

About the ones we wish would wake.