Your Death Is a Poem
Your life is a poem.
Your death is so too.
It's that yin thing.
Is it all illusion, confusion?
Poetry is a grand tapestry with wisdom sewn in-
shiny specks to find...
often the spaces between the words.
The voice of the poet is shared in all of us.
Everybody acts like they aren't going to die.
So how are you supposed to live?
No one wants to die-
yet everyone wants to get to heaven.
Nobody gets out alive.
Can self survive?
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