What if your last moment on earth
is a dismal corner in Birmingham
on the coldest night of the year?
What if you feel nothing as strangers
rifle through your pockets for the last
of your cash and stash as you fall?
What if the cold offers a rare kindness,
a lullaby, as your misery slips away
on the relieving receding relentless tide?
What if dying is better than living?
I am not a silent poet 
Reblogged this on reubenwoolley.
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O, my. Wonderful. Tweeted.
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Good poetry makes a reader feel emotions and imagine sensory experience. This ous good poetry. It’s length and language aid in invoking poor underscoring the hypothermia then freezing, freeing death.
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Alas, for some poor creatures death is better than life. We, having a good life,and cannot really believe this. But I spoke to someone, lying on the concrete. I wanted to help him, offering him a meal and a bed for the night but he just said: no thank you, I know you mean well, but I hope that tonight I can finally die. I cried all the way home.
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what is life and death? As we know death is permanent and life is ever changing evolving to better oneself or make others around you better. No one came back after dying came back to tell us how the other side is but only we have stories how death will be.
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Reblogged this on Cath Campbell.
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