adventures in dysthymia

Sunday, September 29, 2013

Healing, a poem

Healing

Time may heal each wound
but death works even better;
in the earth, cocooned,
we’re free of every fetter.

Free of want and worry,
free of scam and scheme,
yet I am in no hurry
to sleep, perchance to dream.

Yes, peace comes when we die
and earth is all-forgiving;
but till that time, I’ll try —
that’s what makes life worth living.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

More than a bit tongue-in-cheek

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