Why do poets so often dream of death,
And face it so unafriad.
Is it because they know so greatly of life,
And what passes us each day?
They take the time to figure,
To so easily contemplate
The mystery that binds us Unfamiliar,
The reasons that we crave.
I have come to think like them,
To slow thought to a steady pace
As I bask in their secret knowledge,
And thank them for their phrase.
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