Updated: Dec 11, 2020
Death is upon us this day,
eating away at our souls
like wolves eating a carcass,
in the noonday desert sun.
Our souls taste like chicken,
so tender to its appetite,
gnawing the red dead blackness,
like that of the dead black night.
Eerie, foreboding is that of death,
silence far beyond the quiet,
nothing to enhance the soul,
only to steel its kaleidoscopic color.
The finality of it all lies here,
or is it just the beginning,
of something much more morose,
cover your eyes for the journey of quietus. . .
Timothy Michael DiVito c2020