Poetry XXXVII

Swirling like a pint of Guinness,

Life's a drink that won't last long.

We're born, we breathe, and then we're gone.

Yet in the days we have, we gasp;

Clutch the straws we hold so dear,

Aware the day we part is near.

That day arrives and we exhale,

Release our grip, and down our drink.

The straws remain; stronger than we think.

Tagged: guinness, poem, poetry, original, wilshere, death, dead.

Labels: poetry