call collect

By | 1 May 2020

well, lately, i am the grim reaper.
death trails in my wake — flies lie
belly up on my windowsill, side by
side as if they were star-cross’d
lovers, drunk on abjection, on lye.
melons lose a lifetime overnight,
growing marrow soft w/ the inching
light of day, sweeter than smog.
even succulents give in, preferring
the company of dirt. forgive me.
i said lately, but i meant earlier too.
the years read as obituaries do —
circling back forever in our hearts
to a terminal beginning. they say,
living makes light work of you and
i say, amen, all hail the grim reaper.

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