Our Brush With Death! Poem by Michael Fischer

Sounds dance on the ceiling,
spiraling downward, in the
flashing light of the unknown night.
Its diversion creates memories
and provides us with humor.

But death hides, in the darkness
of the flashing light,
while the light presents us
with only half the truth.
Our movements are flipbooks
of motion and the ocean walls
submit us to death’s judgment.

Cameras disobey every call
to return to us owners,
leaving us without evidence.
Our small tales have grown,
becoming simply tall tales!