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Arthur Charles Ford Poem
DEATH
(IT)
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
PITTSBURGH,PA. 15206
EM:[email protected]
1-866-234-0297
Copyright © Arthur Charles Ford | Year Posted 2008
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