It is truly strange, our choices
In the certain light of death
Each of us inclined to
A different manner
Of dispensing or dealing with
The final breath
One will merely smile
And go for a long walk
Another gathers the family
And prepares a meal,
Over which they might talk
Some will scream silently,
Slumping down and over slow,
Into nothingness
While a newly widowed spouse,
Enflamed, seeks out a final fling
with some sexy piece of dress
The bitter recite litanies of pain and
Assign all manner of important blame
The fighters assault random strangers
Beat them into the ground
And assign them terrible names
Priests herd sheep into house of prayer
To deliver the last rites
Of final sleep
Lovers kiss and promise;
This living briefly with the awareness
of impending loss
causes them to cling and to
relentlessly weep
Children huddle, whimper and
Meekly question
What thing comes next…
After the crying…
The bony, white lady
Walks the streets of night,
She sweeps up the losses
And calls it dying
Copyright 2020
Magus
(Kevin Trent Boswell)
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