This poem I wrote but a few minutes ago. On the outside, I’m not entirely sure what it is getting at, but the answer is clear in my heart. So much rests on death. What happens in that moment and what happens after, if anything at all. How we live, how we think, why we cry… we still die.



In the same room yet in different worlds,

a stranger in the window, all black like a widow,

the woman who knows death

and was there for the last breath,

hooded and brooding,

thinking could, knowing should.


Would that we all understood finality and death,

immortality is hope, the casket is truth,

same end, same beginning,

living, still killing,

survival impossible,

suffering, probable.


Freedom from freedom and reason for all,

let’s drink to the gods and believe in the Fall,

warmth brings life but cold slays warmth,

heaven is white and snow is for hell,

iron bells toll for both you and for me,

only the future can set us all free.


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