Death Has Made It's Move Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

Breath-takingly quiet, filled with a sense of urgency,
finding out that death has made it's move.

Whiling away monthly hours, finds no favor with flowers
sent here to bloom.

Forgotten, lying in a heap upon the desert floor, sensing
that life has been drained and will seek no more the
answers of eternal youth.

Standing in the distance, watching light float back and
forth across the desert sands, sending a beacon, warning
of things not from this land.

Nor from this time in space, because there is no season
best for dying, no time is ripe for it to happen.

Always, just beyond the door, watering down words of wisdom,
no one can fill their heads with thoughts held dear.

So, forever, people standing near begin to stumble and fall,
tripping over each other, falling through death's door.