A poem for idle evenings

All my poems have death in them
Does that make me crazy? Morbid?

I searched for the answer
But the page was not found

Although I want beauty to remain forever
And the kiss of life to always revive

Every house built must fall
And every city that thrives must die

I distract myself with chores
Does picking my nose count? No?

I could deliver pizzas in my spare time. Hire me.
I am amiable when I don’t write about death

You offer to lend me a hand that I didn’t ask for
But look, I have already gone my own way

No. Not really. I am right here.
Picking my nose and writing about death.


About fictionfuture

An experiment in minimalist fiction View all posts by fictionfuture

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