Written by: Arthur Charles Ford


                             Brought to us by living corpses
Every second, every minute, everyday,
                             Plants, even share IT’S seasonal way.
No answers, come from thanatology
                We depend completely on thaumatology.
Life makes sure, that IT’S denounced
      Living makes sure, IT happens only once.
Sin and sorry, tend to be IT’S kin
     War seems to justify, why IT’S a win.
The Past is the Future, as soon as IT arrives
         The Future is the Present, waiting to be deprived.
On land, in sea, IT diets on us
               Whether long white hair or pubertal pus.
                         Forsaken by Forever
                        All groups, all prides, all flocks,
                        This Rolex’s worth a million
                        But Longevity, ticks and tocks.
Brought to us by “Funerals”
          Please “Wake” us from IT’S sleep
       Cause IT gave us no fair warning
IT crept, IT hid, IT leaped.

By: Arthur Charles Ford,Sr./poet
P.O. BOX 4725