We are brought back to death,

we that have been so far removed

from it, we have forgotten how it

can happen so easily, the fragile

casing, broken, all that can go

wrong, the one breath,

not brethynge,

not taken,

the lungs

and lights

not stirred

the body

stilled,

 

cooling,

in a moment,

and yet, still, we fail

to believe in that moment.

The Death Mask of Keats,

a beautiful man, looks as if he

is merely held in light, asleep,

and sleeping peaceful slumber.

My father did not look asleep,

he was cold and gone, where in life

his quick wit and movements – V signs

flicked and that devilish smile - devastated,

 

and he’s been gone for quite a while.