Death comes for us all, we know this. Knowing and understanding, I am learning as I age, are two completely different beasts. We know, from birth we know, that eventually all things must pass, transform into something new. What we don’t understand, is the impact this passing will have when it finally reaches us. Frozen fingers under the backs of shirttails, an emptiness that consumes, a black hole in our lives. This poem, this Typewriter Series #3072, is about death, but beyond that, it’s about how when someone we truly treasure does leave us, something is left behind. Perhaps what is up to us, is to ensure that when it’s our turn to start again, we leave behind something that comforts while it aches, that soothes though it stings. To carve our a life like names in cement that leave those who knew us better for the knowing.
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