Death Is My Pose

Death is my pose, where I run,
where you can’t follow,
that shallow river
in which you dip your toes
and realize, (no, where you really know)
you can’t cross, can’t catch me
where I am washed
clean and pose
on the other shore,
smirk on my face permanent,
wiping old blood from my nose.

You thought you could keep me,
or that I was gone.
The shock on your face
at my existence shows.

Try, stick in a foot or a toe.
It looks shallow. Like you could cross
to reach me. But by that time I’d be gone,
on a new shore where the wind blows,
where we live separated by a creek,
by an ocean, by the rills
that wind between
our deepest connections.
Until you die with me,
cast off this pretense and these clothes.
Who knows? Death I suppose.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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