I
Death
is like a river, the color of burgundy wine
flowing
down the mountain toward the ocean, vast and wide
so
much potential
Pinewood
boxes carry dead soldiers
convoys
of ships going down
never
to be realized, planted
fruits
of their achievements
There’s
a revival happening right now
in
my living room, daughter singing the blues
carving
pumpkins – O Death, do your worst!
Ghosts
of our past haunt our present
howling
rattling chains we ignore
these
ghosts move through our lives unnoticed
O
Death, you visit me each morning, embrace me at night
the
dew on the grass soaks through my stockings, mud clings to my knees
Your
boney fingers embrace my neck
tighten
around my throat
this
honeymoon of death
this
funeral of eternity
this
sleep
He
comes to us when we do not expect him
this
black-cloaked phantasm
he
comes when we aren’t ready
and
visits our loved ones
I
carve your white skull
empty
it of its contents
light
a candle to shine
from
your eyes
II
So
much potential wasted
young
men and women returning
in
a pinewood boat, sailing
that
burgundy river
draped
with a flag
It’s
getting colder these nights
I
walked by two people
on
the street holding a sign
on
my way to the theater
You
can go deeper into the unknown if you choose
turning
back from what is safe and comfortable into something else
I
saw Anthony Bourdain kill a goat on TV last night
suffocated
under watchful eye of the tribal king
to
keep in the blood
Ignore
it, pretend it does not exist
Death
comes when it comes
it
does not know fair
it
does not have principles
or
ethics
You
don’t have to go to Syria or Afghanistan
you
can sit by a parking structure, hold a cardboard sign
meet
Death there too
Death
does not discriminate
that
cold chill lurks, returning
into
nothingness
