Death is a peculiar thing.
A thing which lives within
The boundaries of life
And yet has the audacity to
Take it all away
With, on your part, unimaginable strife.
But I suppose it has the right-
After all, what is life?
What is it, but a prolonged
Journey of feeling and now-ness,
Leading to the end of the tunnel, always,
Towards the light.
YOU ARE READING
Truth
PoetryA miscellany of things and other things that may or may not be of the sort.
