Come Softly To My Wake
Come softy to my wake
on pavlova feet
at the greying end of the day;
into the smoke and heat
enter quietly smiling, quietly unknown
among the garrulous guests
gathered in porter nests
to reminisce and moan;
come not with ornate grief
to desecrate my sleep
but a calm togetherness of hands
quiet as windless sands
and if you must weep
be it for the old quick lust
now turned to dust
only you could shake from it's lair.
Come softly to my wake
and drink and break
the rugged crust
of friendly bread
and weep not for me dead
but lying stupidly there
upon the womanless bead
with a sexless stare
and no thought in my head.
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