The End Poem by Mary Champion
The End
With ruthless scythe, the grim grey reaper comes
and though you may be tucked up home in bed,
if this is your allotted time to go,
you can't escape - and you will wake up dead.
But even though your body maybe toast,
growing cold and stiff with rigor mortis,
who is to say you cannot be a ghost?
You must judge how comforting that thought is.
Thursday, February 20, 2025
Topic(s) of this poem: death,afterlife,ghost
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5/7/2026 8:08:01 AM # 1.0.0
