When everything that ticked —has stopped. By Martin Willitts, Jr.
It is not anything that stopped; but me.
It was not Death’s hearse of autumn leaves
slowing down to find my Last Testament.
If I made the smallest dent, I hope it was with Love.
Nothing in this reflective silence is long enough.
Nothing stops ticking in order to speak of me.
I came into the world with nothing except in Love;
and I leave behind nothing of value except Love.
Categories: Plaza Poetry Picks
