Death
DEATH
The spread of the dark is vista
As dawn fold back
To her gentle mild hut hither
In silent sob I grieve
As grandma sings her dirge, brief
What can I say?
Death has come knocking on her door
A home call she must answer
To speak no more in cold feet
This is beginning of the end
As she caresses death
On the bed of depression
Copyright © Ann Yeeka | Year Posted 2021
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