In the fall,
when our posthumous souls
are buried in the ground like tulip bulbs,
will we push our way above the dirt
come spring?
Will God still recognize us?
When our delicate brains are eaten
by thought ending maggots,
is there anything left of our lives?
Is life after death a creation
of the serpent tounges of man?
Will the wailing
of the banshee be the last music we hear?
Or will we be graced by the sounds
of Peter, Paul, and Mary?
Death, Death, Death,
it strikes us down in our finest hour;
an hour in which we are still living.
It is odd how written words
equal truth; unless of course you are talking of science.
All I know of death
is that I know absolutely nothing about it.

by Carl A.I.

Other poems of A.I. (35)

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