Predicting the Inevitable

I should always

occasionally

write a poem on death

 

While mirth still dances in

my gut

and laughter kisses me

 

I should form a stanza or two

Of death riding in on

A pale horse to reap

 

So when the fellow offers me a ride

those waiting on foot

can read the crumbs left behind,

 

 

and say ‘she knew it all the time.’

 

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