Poetry

Spooktown, 21 (295.)

Death waits on crow wings,
for things that run, things that hide,
for every hacking cough
and every lonely sigh.

Death perches in the places
we may not think to look:
within the gums, inside our walls,
on pages in a book.

Death knocks
when they’re least expected;
death arrives right on time;
usually unwanted, like
a sibling full of crime.

Death is obvious, and known,
ever patient and observant.
They wait for all
beyond the road,
the angels’ humble servant.

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