I wish this were not my job


We danced. He played. We listened. Down the years
he changed remade himself. The music throb
changes remains. It is the artist’s job
to be chameleon. He’s dead. Our tears
are for ourselves and how he helped us be
ourselves through change. Let’s not talk of his flaws
today – so many. Wash them in applause
For now. I weep he helped me to be free.
Life is, death is, a cavalcade of grief.
We know, we feel, we dance. And then we lose
who made us. So we put on our red shoes.
Lets dance contempt for death, who is the thief
makes life and dancing matter. In the sky
a starman waits. He knows and tells us why.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to I wish this were not my job

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s