Death dies when hands tremble
leaves my side to inhale her last breath
to a truth that sees behind a lost face.
Poetry is a rumble of the garden's bees
with one spin of a roll of the dice,
protects his queen and dies a hero
and the white leaves his eyes
and the ants rip into his torso.
What's a feeling of a sting ray's given
when provoked to rise and strike?
Moving rocking chair in this haunted room,
you sat in and knitted up the memories,
brushing my face as a child with a broom.
Alice on tv, with a scope on mushrooms
one born to eagerly fulfil his imagination
of a toy soldier and a world of fantasy.
A death knell will sound the night....
A poetry contest front page pick that I'm proud of.