Death

Because I Could Not Stop for Death
by Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

Christian Death: SPIRITUAL CRAMP (Rozz)

Incurable disease on the day of rest
Walking on water in a sea of incest
I've got an image of Jesus
embedded on my chest
I can't leave home without my
bullet proof vest
Killing myself for the perfect honeymoon
fighting with scorpions tied around my neck
I hear the pitter patter
of a killer on the loose
children using their fingers instead of words
crosses burn your temples
on slaughter avenue
It takes too much time to say 'I refuse'
Time is digging graves for the chosen few
Children dig graves for me and you
Describe the illness I'll prescribe the cure
start your two day life
on a two day vacation
I've got a spiritual cramp going for my ribs
Those gangsters toting guns
are shooting spikes through my wrist
children using their fingers instead of words
Fingers bury children under the boards
I can die a thousand times
But I will always be here
with the power skull secrets
of forgotten years
the hangman's noose is trenched
with bloodstains of tears
my hands are the killer that confirms
my tears
Jesus won't you touch me
come into my heart
where the Hell are you
when the fire starts?
On a mission of the father
to reduce the gates of hell
the ivory bone eyed mother's flesh
is starting to swell
I'm setting twenty-two tables
for the funeral feast
Satan is by far the kindest guest

The Bustle in a House
by Emily Dickinson

The bustle in a house
The morning after death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon earth, –

The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity.

who is it
kills to be killed
not for fun
a real soldier sniper killer
can feel the life
without taking any breath
fills the gaps with shouts
and foreign blood
radical destroying behind and in front
for there's no time for creating
anything
just shoots to get people down
on their knees
to let them fall
face into mud
and dirt into mouth
there's no life waiting for you
no past to remember
to repeat
there's only the death
its breath in your face
its cold hand on you
your head
and your heart

The fear of death is indeed the pretence of wisdom, and not real wisdom, being the appearance of knowing the unknown.

--Plato.

Black
is my dress
but tender my look
if you go with me
you'll never come back
i'm the end,
but for someone the luck
i'm not friend
and i'm not enemy
i'm just the angel in the black dress

(well... in german it sounds much better.. but i hope you like my little poem...)

maryanneatwood@yahoo.de