Some Brief Thoughts On The Death Of What We love.
In The Embers, Unremembered.
Somewhere far away,
burned into my memory,
stand the ruins
of my old studio.
Jutting timbers blackened,
and ashes wet and scattered.
The artwork was redone,
tedious recreations of each,
but the poetry,
volumes of early work,
not yet put to disc,
gone forever.
Burnt offering to
the gods perhaps?
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In My Role As A Grim Reaper.
She was covered
in ivory linen,
all that once
moved and loved
stilled.
I signed orders
that shut off
machines that
mimicked life,
though my hand
trembled,
an Autumn leaf
poised to fall.
I whispered
"Goodbye Mom,
I love you,"
bidding her to
"Go into the light."
as peace that
passes all
understanding
washed over me,
leaving her
a memory.
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