Death is a pageant for bad choices;
there is no creativity in saving
disguised as killing;
there is more life to the poor
slaughtered before their time;
their return to a better life
guaranteed by their creator
as a second amendment.
Like a mind soaked in the sun,
death dreams of basking in flowers,
but summer is its imagining
of how eternity must look like.
It is not the heavy metal
slumping on the ground in weight;
it can acquire wings like a bird
and fly away into the darkness.
The Holy crave eternity early
taken suddenly from the world
without a worthy replacement,
without a second skull;
he will not fill the void
with the stuttering unholy,
the rich, the evil, the monstrous
left to make a mockery
of death’s horrible choices.
Perhaps death derides his taste
in reciting the Lord’s Creed;
all have sinned and come short
of His glory.