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....