Sonnet #89

Remember this: They will all die, the men

who tell you what to think and how to live
They’re rarely young, these men, they will spend
Only a few more summers in the fields, overthrived
They will collapse in the weight of so much certainty
And where they fall, the flowers will grow tall
A quiet man will mow the grass, there will be hurting
But, what will remain of these proud men is all
about them that was good, not the preening
Not the proud and angry stubborn way that ought
they say to be what you need to do is bleeding
out into the wind, an empty set of words bought
At such great price, consideration of their peers
Rudder tongues against waves, vainly steered

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