A Poet only now living to the brim
suddenly bursts into writing about
death in various forms.
Like a hard-pressed magician
he pulls up this mean trick.
When confronted, he will argue
it is the fact of life.
Spring has long left him and his words.
But he still tries to break some lines
about the morning joys.
While the dark muse
looks on inquisitively
for a foothold between them.
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