Tim Bovee

Is it a better death in any significant way
to leap from a fiery hell?
I'm sure I cannot say.

Than to feel the daisy-cutter's slashing scythe
cut through flesh and frame?
I'm sure I cannot say.

Or to glance as your smart-bombed roof of slate or rock
collapses and crushes your bones?
I'm sure I cannot say.

Do you prefer the bullet boring through your head
passing swiftly through brain and puss?
I'm sure I cannot say.

Perhaps the gleaming thrust of knife to gut attracts,
the romance of blood in dust?
I'm sure I cannot say.

Cleansing fingers on your throat, clenching in neighborly hate
when comity has fled?
I'm sure I cannot say.

To die in bed? Knowing you've lost your mortal friends,
foes and kin alike, all dead?
I'm sure I cannot say.

In a fearful land of loneliness and pain
Death will surely have its way.
That I can say.