Upon dying poetry
John Clare Stokes
Upon the dying beds
Heard whispering
You were the one
Never in my possession
Though I carried you
All these years
Locked up deep inside
Where we'd abide
In your fine longhand cursive
Writing down the poetry
For only our eyes inside
In our confines
At my soon dying
Take the spiral bound lines
And scatter them liberally
About the wondering ones
Don't fear our revealing
The words rhyme in a
Dialect foreign.
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