Cold coffin holds,
memories of
a life past lived now
wasting away. When
there is nothing
not even rotting wood
and bone, finally
forgotten by the
living only then
is death true.
Writer in San Francisco, CA

Slid into heaven
Thanks to raven wings and bones
It is a dark room
Scattering of beads, thunder
I wake in the morn
poem written in Tanka form
Cold coffin holds,
memories of
a life past lived now
wasting away. When
there is nothing
not even rotting wood
and bone, finally
forgotten by the
living only then
is death true.