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The Beautiful People
All Are Dying


The beautiful people all are dying,
like summer’s birds they all have flown –
how they fall away without trying.

Through the airways you hear them sighing,
they leave the stage for parts unknown.
The beautiful people all are dying.

Their youthful voices forever denying
age, are silent.  They drop the microphone –
how they fall away without trying.

The sad roll call sets us crying
for heroes who fail us, who were only on loan.
The beautiful people all are dying.

For moments, stunned, in the rush of buying,
we hear the drone of death’s monotone.
How they fall away without trying.

Our gods are dead, there’s no denying.
We bow our heads, silent, alone.
The beautiful people all are dying.
How they fall away without trying.

Peter Adair

If you have any comments on this poem,  Peter Adair  would be pleased to hear from you.

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