Death Listens to Mahler
By caleibow
The night is heavytime slips by on muffled hooves.The night of operas is upon me,sad operas of unimaginable Floridasand cruel Carolinas.I am the man on the corner that no one notices.I’ve dined on my own sorrowsand have been weighed down by dreams.That which crushes is the maker of wines.I am red.I am filled with green bottles.I am filled with corks bobbin on a blue-black sea.I’m the eccentric old man yelling at the children crossing my lawn.Death smokes his pipe and listens to Mahler from an old Victrola.He’s been on my porch for a week now.I won’t let him in.So is the crush of age.Time slips by the ringing of so many wet bells,and the wine’s turned to vinegar.I really like this poem, I m not sure if I can be objective Written April 2nd, 2000 © on Aug 24 2001 08:17 PM PST 0 • 16 • 10
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"The night is heavytime slips by on muffled hooves.The night of operas is upon me,sad operas of unimaginable Floridasand cruel Carolinas.I am the man on the corner that no one notices.I’ve dined on my own sorrowsand have been weighed down by dreams.That which crushes is the maker of wines.I am red.I am filled with green bottles.I am filled with corks bobbin on a blue-black sea.I’m the eccentric old man yelling at the children crossing my lawn.Death smokes his pipe and listens to Mahler from an old Victrola.He’s been on my porch for a week now.I won’t let him in.So is the crush of age.Time slips by the ringing of so many wet bells,and the wine’s turned to vinegar.I really like this poem, I m not sure if I can be objective..."