Death

16ths, 8ths and triplets, oh my…

All the great ones are dead.
I know I have said as much before,
but it keeps coming back to me.
They have left us,
all we can do is remember.
John Bonham,
just now,
working that bass drum pedal…
good times bad times…
can’t happen again
not by him,
not by his hand
(or anyone else’s, for that matter).
The greats that have lingered on
have done so
to their own detriment.
Long enough
for us to miss them
in their prime,
but still present now
in their meager denouement.
Those who have left too early
gave us a gift:
a clear dividing line.
We know they were great,
we know will never see it again,
and we know we miss them.
We know we miss them.

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Wicked-killer-evil

There  is a terror

in the corner…

near the door.

Thin-veiled blackness

with diamond eyes

and an intent

to steal my voice,

my breath,

to… kill me?

God yes, I fear it is so!

Pure, slick death,

no emotions…

none.

As it moves

into

my peripheral vision,

to choke me.

Perhaps

the dark

is best.

Waiting for nightfall

The sun comes cruelly over the mountains,

bringing with it a host of terrible truths;

monsters of fact and reality.

This happens each day,

and we mark them…

bless them…

live by them.

 

I curse them.

They are an end to deep, sweet night…

pure thought,

wild ramblings,

scattered writings.

 

The sun murders the night, each morning.

Though, at dusk, night rises from its death-sleep,

and together we conspire against sunrise;

riding the night until it dies once more,

then waiting for its rebirth again.

Join me, as I wait for night.

from the grave

People once lived in 1850,

now they are dead and long rot-away.

I can look back at who they were,

I can examine what they did,

but it will not change their state;

they are dead and gone

forever.

It stands to reason that I too

am now dead and gone,

forever.

For those who will come along

and look at my life

(examine it, know my deeds)

I am now dead.

I am rotting,

gone.

The dead do speak…

“hello”.