Ray Bradbury has died.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead, He is Dead
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
This is also the first Wednesday of the month and time for us to share in the Insecure Writer's Support Group.
My greatest insecurity? Not living a life as full and rich as Mr. Bradbury did. And regretting it to my last breath.
Insecure Writer's Support Group hosted by Alex J. Cavanaugh. Good therapy is hard to find. Join us.