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Death Is But...

Facing the inevitable.
Death is but a time to ponder,
A thinking man's soiree with his ghosts,
From way back yonder,
A time of silent hosts,
Wrapped in a painless cloak,
Comforted by immunity,
From the sins of long ago,
The sins of impurity!

Death is but an empty cell,
With peeling walls and creaking floors,
A place where only shadows dwell,
In an eerie sense of nevermore,
Of reminescent whispers,
That swirl on the breeze,
The soft feel of their presence,
That tickles on your fears.

Death is but the fragrance,
On which we reminisce the past,
A reminder of the circumstance,
That led a certain path,
A way as forged by fate,
Oh! How we long to return!
Alas, it is too late,
We must watch the pyre burn!
By
Published: 12/19/2014
Bouquets and Brickbats