Distribution Automatique

Friday, July 4

circa 1995

Death is inconvenient
It comes on any day
Even when you're careful
Even when you pay

So why write poems about it
Perhaps it's just as wrong
To glorify this awful word
In rhythm, rhyme and song

But today I had to say aloud
What thoughts I can't contain
That silence in the face of Death
Perhaps is too insane

I'm sick of earthquakes, wars and wounds
I'm tired of mourning too
But I'm terrified of distances
That break our hearts in two