Death gets the glory; It shouldn't
Fear is the five and a half minutes after death;
That shocking moment, frozen in time,
When you find yourself ripped from whatever broken down POS
Pops bought you,
And stuffed in a mason jar
In the cellar
Of the mid-level management deity
Who's in charge of transitions at the time.
That's fear;
Staring endlessly through an eighth of an inch of coke bottle glass
At millions of other vapors
Faintly floating
In the own jars,
Next to cosmic turnips and canned beans.
Happy Halloween, New Year, Whatever

by Shannon Walker

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