death what is death


Death what is death
Misha StMichael

There are polyandrium’s that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a creek,
the heart falling into the pit,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like an explosion we die separating like bubbles in the river,
as though we were asphyxiating inside our souls,
as though we lived falling out of the holes into the heart.

And there are cadavers,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is lurking inside the bones,
like a dismal barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from church bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.

Sometimes I see lonely
coffins under passageways,
embracing with the emptiness of the dead, with women that have lifeless hair,
with choirs who are as invisible as angels,
and ruminative young girls married to the pastors,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark red,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.

Death arrives among all that sound
like a piano with no notes in it, like a closet with no clothes in it,
comes and plays, using a hand with no fingers on it, with no
knob on it,
comes and shouts with no voice, with no warning, with no
sound.
Nevertheless, its creeks can be heard
and its embrace makes a startling sound, like a rocket waiting for the fuse to be lit.

I’m quite sure, I understand it only too well, I can hardly see it coming anymore,
but it seems to me that still its singing has the color of drained poppies,
of tulips that are in the roots of the earth,
because the face of death is brown,
and the look death gives is black,
with the inflicting peeling of a tulip leaf
and the blinding color of cruel winter.

But death also goes through the world dressed as a vacuum,
brushing the floor, sucking up dead bodies,
death is inside the hose,
the brushes are the tongue of death looking for a meal of dead bodies,
it is the needle of death looking for skin to prick.

Death is inside the seams of the mattress
it spends its life sleeping in the creases of your bed,
in the black hairs of your head, and suddenly breathes out
it blows out a silencing sound that blows up the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a farm creek
where death is waiting, dressed like a ram.

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This Poems Story

i have seen a lot of death in my life this is a little glimpse into what it now has become