Do you think of death?
I feel him loom over me
Coming out of the violet Pale.
His dim-wire eyes stare down,
Searching the anxious stone of the earth.
Those bone-black fingers, riddled with rot,
Clack together in tune with his feverish heart.
The crown of Death is made of death:
Of lovers lost and paintings burned;
Of pungent marrow drawn from ancient woods;
Of an angel's acrylic tears, azure as I recall.
His face is sad, though, wrinkled with nostalgia,
Mirroring the terrain of his task;
Nobody else will do it, for it is tough.
The reaper's eyes are blue. They gleam with brilliance,
Then fade within. The swan song rumbles on...

I think of death.
I see the effects of that fetid breath;
The green grass is dying in pieces, the tan remains like wheat.
Only in color, as always is the case.
This world is drying up, and only the Lion is prepared
For the heat of Hell.
But the lawn is mesmerizing, a phantasmagoria
Surveying the savannah star-scape
Of forgotten days. Nothing is as the historians say,
Though they say it well.
And on a screen within my fragmented skull,
I watch the cinema of trepidation, imagination, fratricide...
A bloodstained sweater rests easy in a field near the ocean.
Children run wild,
Stamping the brown leaves into fine memories.
They scream in cacophony; black cracks begin to show
On the linoleum, for they only
Scream in antiquity.

And so it came to be, from years fraught with fear,
That I found myself one morning,
With the clouds and firmament looking like a watercolor,
Locked away in a dull red cavern,
With worms and mold for friends.
I looked out through the kidney-shaped hole and
Saw light.
How did I not see all of this before?