Count Up
Death is steady and not unkind,
grows white roots of nightshade
deep into the ground for water
nudges apart the earth and feeds
so it can bud and bloom its trumpet.
Death is quiet and loud, a strange music.
Never is it just one thing, it can be swift,
tread water to meet its final destination.
It is not sinister, nor does it cradle us,
all it does is take us down into indifference.
We are a notch on a concrete wall
counting up to infinity, oblivion.
There will never be a final notch,
only the endless rhythm of the blade
cutting a dry contusion, a marker,
a wound of someone's desperate grief.
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