When death becomes a living thing
When death becomes a living thing
A clawing, unseen, weepy touch
A spreading stain of seeping fear
A pall draped o’er the light of day
When death becomes the present tense
When muted voices must redress
Old words, like flowers, curled and mute
To free themselves from sorrow’s lie
When living death subverts its role
Its cape and scythe gone strangely still
A coldness of the soul is held
When death becomes a living thing
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