Death before us
This friend called death is no friend at all.
Instead a tributary to an everlasting fate never wanted. Growing into the reality of it all. I’m silenced by how often we see this friend. The visits are sudden and uncalled for. Like sudden explosions of hate and joy. Like heatwaves and polar vortexes. Like beginnings and endings. It’s hovering over us like the orbs of time. It’s the memory we want least of all. We can’t take all the days with us; only the last one. Leave a tip for this poet? Jonathan Crest has chosen to ask for tips. Any donation is made directly to this poet, and is greatly appreciated.
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