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Sitting With The Dead

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Sitting With The Dead

Sitting With The Dead (poem)

Sitting with the dead
Their names upon the wall
A nice breeze blows–

The grandchildren never had
Aren’t here upon this bench
Only me, and vacancy
Like the things that could’ve been

Who was Mort Potter?
Or unfortunate James Morgan
And Augustus Roberts,
Who only signed up for the reserves
But died at war

What are our lives worth?
Are we more
Than names on a wall
And half-vacant benches?

Yes–We must be
They must be
They gave their all
Their very lives
For more than just their names
On the wall

So thank you Mort,
And James,
And Augustus,
And Julius,
And Carl,
And Robert,
And Tony.

I’ll sit at your wall.
I’ll remember you.
All you did,
All you gave,
All that could’ve been.

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