A poem about death.

What does death look like to you? To me it is two protruding feet (No shoes on them, just bare feet) out of a white ambassador window on a chill september morning. The legs of my father's father shrunk in demeanour and their toe fingers tout & white as storks, evenly spaced on the surface of a village summer pond. His body inflated as if in water like a toad floating in space his clay skin a bit brighter and a wry smile (and a fly) on his face.

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Written by

Shivam-S

26 / M

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