So often we fear death,
when yet, there are those
days where life has drawn
blinds and closed curtains,

to render dark the minutes
imprison cold, chilled, endless
hours, and then, suddenly, the
ear listens more carefully for

the knock of the reaper, wishing
it would come sooner and bring
an end to torment; halting the cruel
echo of grief, silencing the tapping
fingers of memory; cutting loose

at last, the mortality which feels to
such depth of being, imprisoned
in flesh and weeping blood; but it
does not happen like that….

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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