DEATH Poem: The Sophist Can’t Escape, by Peter Bethanis

The sophist can’t escape himself.
He’s tried women, dogs, cats, drugs, gin,
But in the end the mirror ends up
His only friend.

He’s getting old. Bags under the eyes
like a racetrack. Gray beyond the sides now.
He gives out a laugh, a very small laugh.
The doctors think it’s beyond a cure.

Fate, the universe, death, are nothing
Compared to the callous on his right big toe.
It really hurts. He’s too old for a change.
Ah, to start over now, with what he knows,

That could have been an interesting life.

Author: poetryfest

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