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This isn’t a poem about death, the act of dying, but of death, the man, the apparition

I saw death in a boat
floating down a river the color of dried moss
the boat was made of old discolored bones
he was covered in a black shroud
the sky was black, lit by a pale dying moon
I could see his breath, all the souls he had taken, released into the darkness
as he exhaled in the midnight air
turning to a fog and blanketing everything around him
he held a staff in both hands,
the head of which was made from a skull
at the bow was a tower almost as tall as himself
with another, bigger skull at the top
this skull had horns like the devil,
one of them jagged and broken
I sensed no evil or anger from him, but fear
and like a small animal covered in vivid colors
as a way of warding off predators,
death was doing the same with these skulls

Sometimes less is more

it was simply a poem about death
himself, herself
however the vision pops in your mind
death is a woman
Santa Claus is a woman
God is a woman
God is a dust storm stinging your eyes
God doesn’t exist
death doesn’t exist
this poem doesn’t exist
but there will always be
something to bitch about
in this non-existent void

ABOUT THE POET

Ken Tomaro is a writer living in Cleveland Ohio whose work reflects everyday life with depression. His poetry has appeared in several online and print journals and explores the common themes we all experience in life. Sometimes blunt, often dark but always grounded in reality. He has 4 full-length collections of poetry, most recently, Potholes and Perogies available on Amazon.

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