Rook of the Year / or / How To Effectively Grieve One's Own Final Demise

 

There's not a poem remaining
in this balled up world
  retaining  a worth
                                  of  write,
               so
             eye    set up a scope
                as might  go erranding unto
                more sympathetic  types
              of atmospheria....to breathe, into an act, when
There's not a poem remaining, As fine as this,
                         ( never any good,  ) (never so fine)
Just Pay Attention to the rhymes in the wind    and
         the hum and buzz of breeze through the reeds
                          (  ride to the aerie on high )
                   [The evernever swim a'sea  in the mid of night].

( never cursing to god's domain nor imagining how cursing the the Sky will break into
  prayers and reveries        at a later     time/date/year   ].
An Allegory,
         in small fine print,
                     (lower case lettering...)

and as for Fat....cannot say fit for  long-time now.

Breath.......gettin'mo'n'mo' troublesome.  Sure enough indicative of
                              the body's end come'n soon.
(Like Dad said "but i never thought it'd really happen to me'', the day before before
                  before      he      died.........../// & then he was dead///

Such fckn trouble this death-shit is....AND how embarrassing.  Two hundred five pounds of rotting meat to be disposed-of by complete stranger(s).

Who'd'a' ever thought it'd end like this? Who'd'a' thought it'd end at all?
 So long of a time, vanishing in seemingly, a few minutes.

'House arrest'....ain't allowed to drive....can't go anywhere without strict super-vision.
thirty months in in in a destitute grief as to my girl-child being dead....world being
in the grip of an unprecedented, lethal, nefarious, deal-of-death shutting Eveything down. Making for an increasingly crazed populace.

((( O death, death, death, death.
 May be the best thing ever happened to Our Body, Every Body.)))


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