Time To Die On The Bed


Photo: fineartamerica

Once you wrote a diary 
You are dead  
But live forever 
With your pages
Day by day 
You stroke a pencil 
Sketching in the corner
Perhaps the day started 
With the cold
That hugged you
The morning started slow
No reasons to rushed
The sun slowly ascend 
The shaft of light 
Broken the prism
At the leaves of grass
In afternoon 
When dimness begun to knell 
Sat like an old man 
Everything under the blue sky
Birds hovers
As well the bee on the bud
The pier from far off
Ships; one by one gone
Like a man with a knapsack
On his back

The world already changed
Darkness sipped the land
All colors had turned to gray
Still awoke staring the white page 
Not far in the corner
Recollecting the
Debris floated
Near the brow
Half blinded eyes
Battered table
Opened notebook
Unsharpened pencil
Asked if its time  
To die again in the bed

To: Ernest Hemingway


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