Death is a lump in the throat.
Acute awareness of the inanimate,
bareness in extreme...
cold, full and frozen.

But so to go,
we all depart in time,
journeying to our own ideas.
Into a land of mirrors,
enormous spheres of light,
or white effigies
of personalities that
shade our eyes
in dazed visions.

Then we reach out
to touch.
Need contact with
the other side.
Cold kisses of loves
still ghost.
The quietness of deaths bride.

Death is tears
on a staring cheek,
glazed oversight
of weakness...
thoughts of past returnings
that lay buried
without comfort.

Memories lay heavy
and wear with strain
all passing thoughts
within a seething brain.

Death is...

Sally Plumb

Sally Plumb Plumb

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-of-a-woman/