The Death Driver

This hearse and this carriage won't alter the sounds:
Families and lovers drop tears to the ground;
Caskets and corpses hit bumps and fall down;
I'm simply the driver as I stride through the town.
Moments in passing I won't soon forget:
"My son, please come back, you haven't lived yet."
A daughter with noose marks; the bark of the willow,
The wood in her veins as she rides in her halo.

Or rarely comes along a senile man
Who lived his long life and who followed the plan.
He stands in the wagon as the horses preside
The path so he's taken to his once again bride.

But never once was my trolley not full,
Yet I don't see a petal on this box of death's toll.
As I stand in the crossroads of this old city section
I peer in the coffin and I see my reflection.

I'm a stubborn old man and this woman no doubt
Is the other half of my life I was too lost to mount
In the highest of places in the depths of my head,
So I lay back now softly with this knife in my hand
And an open box inside which my beauty is dead.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem