Poetry of the Dead

The living poetry that is your movement
fades as the last dead leaf touches cold ground.
Watch closely; the last breath comes once.
And then, within a sobering fraction of a moment,
death's secret is revealed.
A sensation of breaking water after being submerged,
lungs gasping for air, and finding it--
in dying this liberation is continuous,
until, at individual pace, the air transforms
into a kind of salvation and all sense of
struggle is devoured by overwhelming waves.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem