Death

Original Publish Date: 7.1.1

Every ache
Speaks of a time
When we will meet
You are the doorway through which
Even the Saints must pass

Sometimes I feel you
Creeping up from behind
Others, you are a distant
Point of darkness
That could spring up
At a missed traffic light
Or in a winter virus

My days are less numerous
Than I would like
I can no longer afford
The wasteful frivolities
Of inane videos
And addictive activities

Creativity and spirit
Call to me as gently as ever
But now I hear a note
Of pain in their voices
Wait no longer
Today is the day that counts ask alice . site headers