Bella Morte
Most poets who on death obsess
See white of bone through pale thin skin
Aware men cold below sod wear
A skinless face with lipless grin.
Dark sockets deep instead of eyes
Where daisy bulb instead of ball
Replaces organs used for sight;
While waiting on sweet rain to fall.
Those poets know, in fact rely,
On mysteries surrounding death;
Inspired by it yet still possessed
Until their final rale of breath.
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