Colin F. Jones

DEATH IS DEATH

I would to her a valued parcel give,
Of precious magic willing her to live,
While knowing that her petals near the hour,
when they must whither with the vital flower.
For time that frames such beauty to my eyes,
Doth also droop such lids that they despise,
Their own dismissal of all that they might gain,
With misty wetness trying to drown the pain.
There is no sanctuary, no place for one to run,
Tis a brutal bullet from life’s blatant gun;
Death is death that by its will perceived,
Is that from life, tis all one has achieved.
For all things pass away that we become,
The empty space that is the gift we’ve won.