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