Death

Death, the opposite
of birth;
Death, the closing of
the loop;
Death, a pact made with a
faceless omnipotent,
signed with the blood from
a mother’s aching womb;
Death, a warm hand held
on the most pleasant of spring days,
turned to cold bone,
turned to ash inside an urn;
Death, caress, a kiss from
the sweetest, softest lips;
Death of the reddest rose
with the sharpest of thorns;
Death, an exit
when ends seem to elude;
Death, an answer to a question
we never understood;
insane, expecting different outcomes
try, try, try as we might
Death is the only thing
the living can’t ignore;
Death, an umbilical fuse
lit with newborn lungs

 

Written for dVerse Poets Pub’s Anaphora poetry prompt. 

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