Angel of Death by my Bedside (a poem)

The angel of death sits by my bedside
I stare into the vacuum of her eyes
I know for sure I’m being exiled
And she’s waiting for my demise

She comes to visit once a month
Brings me a bouquet of dead flowers
She always looks so stunned
That I’m awake at such late hours

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God Laughed (a poem)

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
The child is dying, and there’s nothing
I can do, except scream like the child

Is the child me? I wonder
Am I dying? Maybe so
The cabin room is hot
The planet is an oven

All our worst fears always
Come true, it’s true
My father taught me this
A day before he died
At his kitchen table

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At Death’s Door (a poem)

What comes after death?
Why of course, no one knows
When we take our last breath
Where do we all go?

We all ask this question
Religions are based upon it
There are a million suggestions
On the topic, we’re very split

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Long, Strange Decay (a poem)

Dead poets hang
from shrunken trees:
ring-a-ring-a-roses,
a pocket full of posies
,

singing dead songs,
lyrical flames ignite
numb corpses

Obsolete language from
skull faces, pensive troubadours:
satchels with free verse,
in a universe
devoid of logic

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Strange Planet (a poem)

Why do you fear death when
you’ve died so many times before?

It was new once and it scared you,
an awful boom and tingling sensation
up your spine, lights dimmed,
an explosion of impossible colors
tasting like metal and smelling of wood,
leaving you breathless

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