Sepelire

In the prosthetic arm
of life,
Death slit its wrist,
with a sharp edged
and lucid piece
of memory.

Abducted by fear,
Paralyzed poor tear,
in the funeral ceremony.
The woodland of self-pity,
generously donated
a brown coffin.

'Why me?'
'Why only me?'
Questions echoed
the footsteps of ire,
Approaching hastily,
to hit the final nail
and freeze death.

©songbriti