DEATH.

DEATH.

Death shrouds us like an island.  Sand is carved from stone.

Sleep is a brindled bull dog that does not escape promises

As dark clouds form overhead.  I talk to you from the tomb

Of the unknown, the deepest, darkest pit of despair, imagining

Edgar Allan Poe speak of the missing, the dying, the dead.

Some people need to be taken by the hand and shown the way;

Others pave the way to perfection; still, others, listen, and speak,

And listen again, and their words move on the wind.  I had taken

The time to speak of differences, I had taken the time to move

The wind, the wind that moves me as I walk outside, broken and

Shattered, on egg shells.  My wounds are raw and blistered.

I do not do anything but speak of the things that must be said,

Who is forsakened by the wind itself.  Et tu, Brute?  I say, over and over

Again, and he smiles his smile, sad and lonely, and the words

Bare no meaning.  Thoughts are lonely things

That move on the winds of time, and the birds cry to the cloud-filled

Sky, the puffy clouds moving slowly across the great bowl of daylight,

Taking time to remove its prey.