D
eath is a gray lady; waiting and.
       she is whitely quiet but always niggling the
bones in our frameless panes. pale cheeks stained
onyx rivers or. ash skirt fluttering in no breeze. felt
   but heard whispering in our.

dEath is a solid nothing. or green stems bent withering
petals dry under and stiff. blooming never more ever more.
a manure tree odoring better than.

                  death is a noise unheard blaring
                     but death isn't your delicate plush
                 perfectly imperfect perfection. in my cleft
                           stunningly dim. death is. waiting and.
                  a silent riot of colourless gardens frozen
                                infinite decay. a notion so sweetly bitter.

death is a gray lady!so cometo my sheets and spread
        your legs and salty tears and feathers gently or.
                             peacefully scream deAth in the rapture
                 of
          my
                     palms           and.