How it fills me
The word,
The abrupt but definite,
Irreversible awareness
Of death.
A lot like death itself
Not flaunt but proud
A thought I
Inwardly wear
To adorn my soul.
Truly,
How will I feel
Facing death
The way I face my
Breakfast ,
Every morning
Unarmed and resigned.
Death grows from a word
Blooming on the tips
Of my fingers
Firm breast buds
Of what I could
Have done.
