it may be played on

a different instrument


it may be sung in

a different tongue


it may be paced in

a different rhythm

but there

as it is here

it is the song

of death

the march to which

we parade toward

the grave


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About John White

I've written off and on my entire life. It took years for me to finally take putting words together seriously. Now it's not, nor does it ever feel, like work. Writing daily has become habitual. No day is complete without words having appeared on the page.

Posted on March 25, 2016, in Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 28 Comments.

  1. Mark Twain said one should live such a life that when they die even the undertaker would be sad….;)

  2. Very interesting indeed,there 🙂 enjoying your words.

  3. Collectively, I guess we have yet to reach rock-bottom, John. Nice post!

  4. yabba dabba doo! 😀

  5. I wouldn’t think about the end until after it happened.

  6. Back to Mother
    We all finally crave 🙂

  7. The one certainty in/of life

    • Thank you, Kunal! 🙂 It’s the unavoidable and it can consume a lot of our time and emotions but we’re going to be happier thinking about today rather than the end. But that’s so hard to do.

  8. Beautifully written. And reminds us that in the end we are all not that different from each other!

  9. The day we are born, we begin our journey to that destination. I hope something better comes after, but who the hell knows? Great poem, John.

  10. Music seems to be a recurring theme on writer’s blogs this weekend. Spring has sprung!

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