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Dying Thirsty

By Christopher M. Towsley

 

From the Whiteout Press poetry section.

Poem - Dying Thirsty by C.M. Towsley. Image courtesy of Bill Frymire.

Seems like they’re always telling You,

never forget the dead,

I mean right from those slicked back posters,

above Your bed,

You would think,

they would want You to,

instead.



The majority of the dead,

We seldom recollect,

yet I am sure,

You recall quite clearly,

when it’s You that’s,

cashing the cheque.

 

Because there are so many of them now,

You couldn’t remember half,

and I wonder if somehow,

they’re all kept track of,

in a cache.

 

You see in death,

there is a clandestine

liberty.

Why some deaths are remembered,

forever,

is a mystery.

While others die,

and their memories,

are swept away,

their bones unearthed,

by a machine,

on some nondescript working day.



And all these guys,

were busy,

grabbing a bone,

for a souvenir,

when most of the dead would tell You,

all they wanted was a cold beer.

And I thought to Myself,

being parched at death,

would be the worst,

and I figured,

that dying,

might not be so bad,

as long as it didn’t

include thirst.

 

And it made Me think of all the Young kids,

dying in a war,

their canteens dry for hours,

they’d been promised more.

Nothing came,

but a swarming enemy,

and their final cry,

was from a mouth bone dry,

and thirsty.

 

Christopher M. Towsley – April, 2012

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