The Dying

April 2, 2019

Oily water, rusty cages,
a paw through the bars.
Dead man found trapped in a
dead circus.

Yellowed teeth, black keys
of an orphaned gila monster.
Last notes of the Maple Leaf Rag
fleeing after Joplin’s head.

Reptilian wings, Egyptian etchings.
Papyrus in the canary cages.
Too worn, too weary,
in wait with open arms.

Empty iceboxes, mayonnaise jars
The last notes of Tosca and Mozart
smothered by the fifth horseman of
the apocalypse.

And more Death;
Beautiful boy, driven away by guilt, and
His parakeets stolen and the ringleader behind bars, and
The rifle lady off milking cows, and
in Venice like the Plague.

Death everywhere.

Unseen killer in the aisle of the train;
Hot breath, stale whiskey.
Urine in his clothes, rot in his skin.
Open graves, raw meat.
Like Death come to life.

And me, The Crazy.
Lonely, too far from the catacombs.
Writing the Death away with nothing
but a 1935 Underwood Standard.

“When does the dying stop?”


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1 Comment
  • Vin

    Damn. I love this.

    8 months ago