The poetry of dying
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The poetry of dying

I saw a rat, dear brother Matt
Whose furs resembled heaps of clouds
While his pink lips smelt of death
For a while, even I struggled for breath
 
Like the sun leaping from sky’s pocket
The little creature lept in agony-
Trying in vain, to flee from the pain
Stabbing at its stomach and tiny brain
 
As if in a trance, I stood there watching
Waiting. Not really sure what was happening
Oh brother! There I remained dormant
Clearly stuck in that very moment.
 
At last the little one ceased to struggle
with its gauged eyes staring at me;
A serine painting of dawn and sunset
Stolen from Da Vinci’s artistic pocket