death is a scary thought to the point of confusion :
you lead a lousy life so die
but worries about the one’s you’ll be leaving behind;
but death is best felt when it touches you,
its an incentive if you lived to tell about it
though most of those who survived failed
on being a good storyteller.
this can be my last poem
and the last story that ran in my head like a super 8
was my brother’s boss’ death :
drop dead on the floor after playing badminton.
and as i write down these words
i feel death’s caress on my nape. i feel it blurring my sight
i feel it thumping my chest. i feel it tiring my knees.
i see my father’s image and how his image fits in here;
” death is like scoring junk the first time “
let me say it once again.
” you don’t really know what happens next. ” ———-
O death i feel you in my bones
as you slowly approach my doorstep.
let me put my best suit on