Forever long poem

Photo by krystian_o


Death doesn’t hurry
it knows where we will be
knows everything
comes back to where it started
like any small town Napoleon
just keeps building
its tower of crap
and waits for the flies to return


Death is an artist
needs something to do
to occupy all our interims –
born to a white canvas
it paints our colorful
strokes and smears
enigmatic eddies
suggestions of purpose
that never quite resolve –
then whites us out again


Buy it another cup of coffee
sing it something
though your voice
isn’t as good as years ago

just don’t challenge it
to a game of chess:
that kind of cliché
makes its molars grind

anyway it has memorized
all the possible moves


Death is with me now
painless, fleshless phalanges
molesting the spaces
between my ribs

even though I’m not a virgin
I must protest:
this is too familiar
I’ll be yours soon enough

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a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
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1 Comment on "Forever"

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wow I loved your poem indeed. Death mmmmm I know it hangs around but I have made a friend of my death and for that it grants me my own time ha ha. Sorry I do not mock your poem it is a different slant on what shadows us from birth.


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