Smile at me Hemmingway, give me the truth

of your demise, show me why it hurt

and I will oblige you with my tale,

you at least will go down in history,

for you my bearded friend, had reasons,

I seem to have excuses to keep living.

These excuses, some by name, some by deed

are wrapped in shrouded mist, hidden

even from my own pathetic pill popped brain

and I weep for myself, quietly, alone,

in plain sight so that nobody

sees anything but the smile.

Smile for me Hemmingway,

smile and take my place,

your genius should have strayed

a while longer, should have lingered

with fidgeting ease, for in my works,

clay feet is perhaps the best I can offer.

Ian D. Hall 2015