Death which has been
cast upon one by
a sober hand is
indeed the most
intimate of the act
that is ******.

Death in the seeds
of the castor plant.

Death in the barrel
of a dulling syringe.

Death in the growth inside
of you,the one you
never knew you had.

Death of the Love that took
all  we had  to **** .

The Death of reasoning
and reality.

Death of all that we
kept hidden inside of us.

Death in the dancing
girls eyes.

Death on the prison yards
where no one forgives.

Death in the terms of
the ways of our world.

Up close Death ,
just as death by the
knife is personal.

The Death in you
as you pass a beggar
without the least bit
of charity even
crossing your mind.

The Death of our
Heroes.
D.Boons Death.
A Death by
misadventure.

Holy Death
my vengeful
mother
my heart bleeds
red for you.

The Death of
that smiling face
in the
photograph,
that face who
looks too much like
me.

Her promises
reeked
of the Death
of me.

The Death of
the flames
when there's
so much left
to burn.

There is no repulsiveness
in the promise of Death,
it's a tender helping of
frivolity which helps
to ease the unimportant
and minute details that
only you can and
do cast upon this.

The life you're forced
to wait through.