The poem below, a haiku, was in my head, completely written when I woke up this morning:
Death Vigil: The Eighth Day -- A Poem Whose Title is Longer Than Itself
Her breath is raspy.
Outside, rain begins to fall.
Even God is sad.
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"for 'twere absurd to think that nature in the earth bred gold, perfect in the instant;
there must be remote matter." - Ben Jonson
"I don't know what the question is, but art is the answer." - Guy Conner
