a Series of Tomorrows

The sweep of death rains
Slowly down from the heavens,
It calls us, softly.

It yearns for our souls,
To come claim us for its own,
But resist it, friend.

Your time has not passed,
It is another it seeks,
Not you, not now; yet.

So much to live for,
Such things to see and still do
But your time may come





pushing the envelope and bending the haiku format to my own tastes. sue me.

The End

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