Death
Happy Easter! It’s a time for renewal and celebrations. Isn’t it good that death allows life to replace it?
Runes, rumination and Rider-Waite
weapons, a white linen phrenology
washed and steeped in wellbeing,
employed by the Queen’s colony.
“Ladies don’t start fights, but they
can finish them!” ruminated mugs
I reappropriate in Weet-bix law
from crunches to soggy smiles.
The rip of runes eventually curl
compact discs, sixty cassette’s
storage of a physical “death”,
conjecture predicted.
Discs I understand, but hermits?
Less red hair of “Satan,” my God,
Creator’s logic’s return address;
genuine artificer’s intelligence.
From seven to the three,
threes of the unoriginal
approach of entrenched
death.