By M.D. Ward



Silent nights are golden and the days slide thru glass silver slivers of light.  Ah I can hear the dead whisper they will wait for a while, but don’t tarry too long.  We who stand at the end of time, fall asleep at the post and forget.  Come in the fire and you will be warm.  For a little while.  Less noise. Less confusion.  The leaves are falling.  Its November again.  A year of pain has passed away and the lucky have no need of a toothbrush no mo no how.  Slip along the slippery glass you speck of sand your turn is nigh your turn is right around the bend.  Death is  small and dark.  It wears a fine suit and covers a block of ice.  “ He looks so peaceful”.  Goddamn right! He does.  As happy as an angel.  As innocent as the unborn.  Back home again.  Back on the farm.  Out of this world. Breathless.    


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