From the moment we become live,
Death is waiting.

Tracking..
Chasing..

Shadowing us throughout our lives from the sanctuary of darkness.

From dusty corners and darkened alley ways..

He watches, the Reaper waits...

It's all a part of his game love.
Were all just a pawn in play.

While he's,

Waiting..
Debating..

Whether he's..
Already grown tired of your existance.

Comtemplating..

Whether he's..
Decided to end your life, upon this very night.

So live each day as if it was your last, my friend..

Because your time,
It very well may have already run out...

The Grim Reaper reaches deeper,
Over-eager to catch a keeper,
Create another ever-sleeper,
At the expense of ever-weepers.

Playing heart-string harps, his hand extends,
Lost in searching, he transcends
O'er prayers and pleas. He descends:
The catalyst of anguished ends.

A terminator of life's coda,
Enternally, he fills his quota.

Because you kicked and you screamed,
And you cried and you pleaded,
To meet the Reaper.

Yes you cut and you stabbed,
Swallowed pills until you gagged,
Just to try to meet the Reaper.

You even hung from a rope,
But then it broke, what a joke,
You just want to meet the Reaper.

Closed your eyes, fell three floors,
Broke your feet and nothing more,
You're dying to meet the Reaper.

You shot yourself in the head,
Yet you're still not ******* dead!
Why can't you meet the Reaper.

How you long for an end,
Suicide, your favourite trend,
Life decided you're a keeper.

Now you're grey, what can I say,
Death could come any day,
But you don't want to meet the Reaper.

Lived a life, plagued by strife,
Now you sleep with a knife,
Just in case you meet the Reaper.

Empty vessels, faded light
In the windows of my ghosts.
Floating past, searing memories
Stained into the horizon.

Slow beats, flickering
Motes of consciousness
Briskly stroll behind and around
The broken road.

Vigor torn from husk,
Holding onto false promises.
Haunting, spines chills.
Shivering at the thought.

Fatal words cut deep,
Warming unquenchable desires.
Grab the scythe
Approach the mantle of Death.

Lily on my crown,
My soul is rooted with sunflowers,
Love springs from my lungs.
Death is a garden.
Affection a coffin.

Hedge around ribs,
Holy light tightened on heart,
Beating carols only heard by dogs
Like a whistle, thistle on my knees cutting heaven real deep.

Tulips lace my tongue
Taste of angels, backwash of Lucifer.
Eyes pupiled amethyst. The healing stone. My world is healing while thorns and samsara hold my ankles to material and the edge of avarice.

World of loom hill parade ecstasy while weather ignites to 24° psychic readings being hosted in palace atrium & column walls where the archaic clock gongs upward to ****** addict ghosts and mental wards in lucid Babylons.

Lovers screaming against bombs, blister billow black clouds and smoke with marijuana haze in flats and compassion for grief cottoned years.
Rumble of music soaked into ratless insulation, long conversations with the insomniac self who hides from monsters inches over his head.

World of daysetting group understandings amidst orange moonlight. Coalmine haired bereaved droop nose man crawls from darkness for another cigarette on the balcony, 4th floor apartment complex in May. Depression hit like **** **** fogging out the brain.
Emptiness is the west.

Travelers who sway on driftwood face The Cascades acknowledging past times, revolving themes and bullet mouthed villains who seek away from starvation from ego lacking.
Their bile is sentences and the rest, anyways.  

Japanese instrumental rolls through closed eyelids in flashing Technicolor, rabbits watch the highways unaware of mortality.

World of bicycle rides on packed ** Chi Minh
City 2016 Winter where twenty-something North Americans go for pho while others go for broke. Palm trees polka dotting college campus in Afternoon, insects whine for the daydreamers. One is writing poetry in a small Vietnamese cafe sipping earl grey inspired by the Oriental clutter and a redheaded girl back home who paces frantically in the attic besides a crooked lamp scrawling flowers to the rotted whitewood panel work

The artist’s craft is a keepsake for eternity, as wells dry out and desert becomes ocean, poems will melt to matter zipping to outer space, satellite ink spots expanding by forever realms.

Pillow foot sole cracks shell casings on forgotten battlefields in later decades, wiping off grit shoeshine boy corpse particle reformation and fairy spit from brow, the last mad prophet sees visions of Christ as arachnid wretch black widow who venomed our bones with rapture,
doom wax peeling away after the damages had been committed.  

Now I check for spiders beneath my sheets.

Banshee howl symphonic sorrows leak in unison with all lanes of commuting traffic. Denial curse for positivity, mindset slate hiding
The weary souls radiance. On the 15x down Johnson! psychedelic chasm quakes through the wheels and my thoughts are spinning sunshine!
Washing machine dynamo recollections of whiskey spilt over carpet dark sand shade while La Vie En Rose resonates from playerless pianos topped with incense sticks in arabesque ashrams, imaginary shelters. We all have one!

Nick Cave is sleeping by back row while we approach final stop in front of bankrupt Chinese corner stores. He’s murmuring Oblivions and the bus keeps on going.

Death is a garden.
Tears are its rainwater and bucket flow.
Nectar pattern reveries honeybee the flowerpots.
Peoples sprout from them bloomed full.

Rosy reaper blasts past the solar system in a comet rocket since she saved the aliens, she hums Vivaldi and huffs a good huff from her cherry cigar.
She tightens her starlight hood and black holes be born.
Torn apart Pluto goes

B    A    N    G

Comet delirious ignores the decimation
And shouts the Lotus Sutra

“ALL GODS WERE TOO PASSIVE”
Reaper hollers back steering by the milky way and beyond on their hallucinogenic trip.

Lily on my crown.
Crown for the kingdom
wherein Reaper resides
and sings with galaxy ukulele to
the great empty.
Great as all can be.

I see dying people on dying sidewalks.
Dying gulls hover by an ambulance full of dying heroes which save you from sooner dying. The ambulance goes past a funeral home where the dying attend to the dead.
I've passed through this sidewalk before, when I and the world were a little less rotten. I've seen the familiar parked mail truck which has a woman inside usually playing scrabble. She's solved more puzzles, and earned less time.

Did you know it costs money to die? Suicide is illegal, the government has decreed you need to earn your own right to die. You need to die in some accident or from disease or ailment or getting too old. You're serving in a conquest against dying yet either way you'll lose!

I realize as I pass a law firm beside a curiosity shop that my soul is losing its light to power our electricity. My eyes are losing their ability just to watch violence on the news,
My hair will soon be snow.
Im getting sleepier earlier, I'm getting older quicker.
The last thing I wanna do is sleep!
I don't want to weep,
I don't want to be reaped.
My faith is lazy,
My heart is crazy,
Padded up in loveless institutions.
Going to the city makes me feel lonely.
There's one wrinkling man I see here every day, he's wearing a big white sweater, bald spot haloes his skull.
Will I be him one day?
Is he an angel of prophecy?
He writes illegible notes on lined paper from an organized folder in his satchel. I have a satchel, it looks just like his. He is my outcome and my shadow. He is my prayer and my nightmare. He is wise and he is lost, I can tell by his face, his frown, his scowl.

He is dying, more than me.
Maybe thats what his notes are about.
I know mine are.
Despite all these years his weight
Remains the same.
I suppose mine will too.

As I sit next to the driver seat--
a small leaf is stuck on the windshield of this hearse.
Focusing on the half alive and half dead nature of it's blades,
I begin to lose touch with the reality around me.

Wondering how this thing is seemingly in a struggle to free itself--
I know the wind is it's true master,
but I can't help imaging an inner struggle,
for it to make a timely retreat to the tree it has fallen from.

Time has etched it's deathly remnants even into this greenery--
sparse edges that I assume were once rounded are jagged spikes.
Each one resembling some torment this leaf has been through,
as the world consumes fragments of what used to be true beauty.

Dangling by it's stem is the last connection
between filling my mind with the nature of leaves,
and other possibilities that have not yet come.

There's a sudden jolt, and the luminescent leaf
takes this final gasp of breath to spring itself from the trap,
perfectly sinking its escape with my own exhale.

As I exit from this car
the realization comes to me
I'll never get to see that leaf again.

Where do we go as the oar man rows?
I see no light down this stream we flow.
Where do we go as the oar man rows?
In these crossroads I just don't know.

Do you know my dear mother?
Can you hear me, oh father?

Where do we go?
Where do we go?
Where do we go as the oar man rows?

Are there Angels?
Are there Demons?
what am I now?

I am frightened
of the darkness
of the oarsman.

Where do we go as the oar man rows?
Do we just die or do we have souls?
Where do we go as the oar man rows?
Down this dark stream I've come to know.

Where do we go?
Where do we go?
Where do we go as the oar man rows?