This Is Not A Poem

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This is not a poem,
it is a waning recollection.

 

I danced with death in Bermuda,
entangled in his unescapable grasp,
my deepest insecurities mirrored
by his icy and desolate self.

 

Love is like being stabbed in the chest
with a rusted length of discarded rebar.

 

The reaper himself embraced me then,
whispering deafening silence into my ear
as if it were sweet nothings
spoken by a long lost lover.

 

All poems are about death it seems,
but this is not a poem.

 

He haunted my footsteps still
into the melancholy of Autumn,
dressed in black woven sheets
 with a goodbye kiss tender and cold.

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