When you are old and grey and full of sleep
sitting by the fire,
realizing that i'm gone.
Gone with the wind and the grammar of poetry
in the jaded verses of my eternal poetic existance.
Maybe i couldn't touch your heart while i was here,
sleeping in the bush of your eyelids,
waiting to be the first thing you read every morning.
Perhaps it was the shade of black that made me too abstract, that i fell into
the pages of once upon a time's.
Perhaps i couldn't really be eternal till i passed.
Maybe then time could sow me to your pupils and even in your dreams i'd be there.
I guess a poet isn't worth speaking of until he's dead.
I might be defined by death,
but you will never understand my prose.
Till you too, join me pushin daisies.








**readers note: this was jason's last poem written**





-posted by gigi (helen thomson) jason's love forever and fiance)