Death

I contemplate

About “What is god?”

My mind fingers through

Rolodex memories

In hopes of plucking

Certainty’s answer

From a flower’s fecund

Pinch-petal beauty.

A velvet tongue wraps-

Around a forgotten arm’s

Deferred rotten dream. 

I think of the deaths

I have lived: all remain

Intact – like remnants of 

A broken borrowed dream.

Now, “God!” – you say;

Do I say, “god?” 

This comfort assures

(at its very least)

And makes warm

An un-accessed area

Of my joyous tearful heart. 

A flash of Light!

A long White Tunnel!

Inside pure blackness

Is pure nothingness: 

(A place I have been.)

On Occam’s Razor

Sits another razor

In perfect balance

Of Love’s reduced parts. 

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