My imagination is a canyon,
streams of consciousness carve through the tributaries
eroding with each flood.
One path is deeply cut and the pain is a long acquaintance.
Vivid particulars spark between neurons
decades in prediction I can see
my mother lying on spotless white sheets
an IV dangles from a breathless being
a stifled whimper.
It echoes into the present,
the river of thought reaches the delta,
tear ducts dilate with clinched fists.
There is nothing I can do to stop an end for those I love.
The face is replaced by friends, family, lovers,
Wrinkled and grey the inevitable fate for some;
but Death awaits all.
Why man fears his own death is a mystery,
it is the only consolation in the face future grief.
An end to personal suffering but not to those left behind.
Theme: Imagination of evil
Death to Fanatics 