--
A life means that many times each dies
for ends don't close a single-stranded thing
but hives the network of all that apprise
the ache in us; recorded, we still sing
until refrain will close with hush of pain.
To browse our photos- someone keeps us young
some three seconds and never then again;
while bank's named accounts save us, though we're hung.
So think of different things that make us up!
Our lives are pieces, sort of a la carte;
we're foe or friend, tossed salad, shelled scallop
or gait, or glove, or picture's pleading eyes!
Since you will turn away: again she dies.
UNDER CONSTRUCTION
(MY FORMER NEIGHBOURS RIGHTLY SAY
THAT WHEN I MOVED, I PASSED AWAY
Glenn Bagshaw
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/construction-sight/
