Poets.org The 'Thing Dead on the Road Brian Gyamfi I'm afraid I was wrong about the world ending. The man sitting on the bench-is simply a man on fire. His fingers; reaching for solitude, something brief. The day becomes a sigh of pigeons digging For stones. I stand near the station Too sick to notice the bench—or the man—or fire Or whether I've been spared from grief. Even the roadkill, coveting concrete, stands And walks. Where are those left behind? I thought I knew something About Armageddon. I apologize, But when the world pauses, I will sing naked In the heat and grow a forest of sycamores. Who can survive an apocalypse And live? I made the roadkill a god But I'm not allowed to speak for god So I wait.
This poem by @briangyamfi.bsky.social breaks me and reminds me of one of our #PoemADayJuly poems!
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