When we look at this, what we see is death
however, death is not what we perceive
embedded in a coffin in the ground
never do we see their face, their last breath
windows to the afterlife closed, stitched shut
elapsed memories to compare deceive
linguistic mirrors make judgments unsound
overt attempts to tie images down
ordered into a sequence, in the gut
kinds of difference, otherness, we receive
ancient associations, we reject
traumatic visions of the real, conceive
terror as what is beyond, to inject
horror as quotidian, blame the clown
inspector of the mundane world, for laughs
shrunken humans appear headless, no crowns
wickedly grotesque, ugly, without sense
how phantom spirits stride, tall as giraffes
at the zoo, on safari, in a bus
tranquil the sunken face of death, she drowns
water so shallow, she fell off the fence
enveloped in alcohol, she seems drunk
such behavior is not worth all the fuss
enter judgment, the clown's playground, her corpse
entirely ineffectual, dead
in the passage of time, a light beam warps
similar to wooden beams, welcome dread
diminished fifths, the tritone bends the trunk
each to their own, bodies both young and old
accept without argument, without words
triumph of the well-wishers, little birds
holed up in a bush, sparrows, lives unsold
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