'''was'''... means gone----

''let old bitters be washed away----- and honey across memory ....do spray

Pragmatic ::::::no Posthumously

Very pragmatic view
that's why
Nobel is given to those living
and
those since had gone....
need no Posthumous
they need only to be remembered
even that they will know not

brains have been left in ashes
of that is there still
in any minds
a lingering doubt?

I'm great, fine, spectacular. In a way
I relish every night, and I live every day.
I live, I laugh, I write, I sing,
I wonder what the new days will bring.

Then I get home, and I take off the mask.
The day, and almost impossible task,
Is finally over, and so I lie Down,
and wait patiently for the day that I die.

I cry, I scream, I bawl, and sleep,
even though I have promises to keep.
I wait, and wonder, and cry some more,
And I ache and burn from my very core.

would succumb to the whale
of his memoirs wrath
and wither by the gale
of the writer's breath

the aversion he tasted
through the years of woe
and the anguish wasted
allow him his wickedness sow

the long gone dead
and their castrate journals
allow a tear to be shed
on old, offensive portals

would lay prostrate and still
reciting the jots of ink;
a wench to his wicked will
the page his passion drink

Plovers for Nightingales.
I
I hear them, behind the soft glow windows scene
Of girthing brick suburbs, encircling the green

You know, the lonely tappers singing
Along the lines of the lovers, listening

They hear its imploring screeching in the dark
As a pouring forth, a protective heart

The defining nocturne sound, in the southern night
The night song of the plover’s birthright

By day, deemed guilty by proximity,
They spear my sight, swooping desperately