Dying Poem

He danced as a buck,
sang as an elder and
beat a drum as long as he was able.

He is proud of his red skin
that now looks as though
it has been stripped from his bones
and thrown, shriveled, into a heap
onto a hospital bed
and plugged into the wall.

The child he holds in his arms
is the son of a daughter born to the son of a son of his son's daughter.

He cannot see the child's red skin, but
he can smell the sweet aroma of
prairie grass on the Osage Hills,
and in the distance
hear the cry of a young brave
singing of immortality.
The Red Line by Judd L. Strom @FamilyFriendPoems

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