Abandoned to Makta Island on new releases
Abstract Concrete Poetry -
Mega Romantic, Spiritual Poetry


I stood at the airport waiting stranded and stuck.
Death drove me to her home in her latest garbage truck.
She said, “It was her new and latest limousine,
She hoped the hot, zonking stench wasn’t too much.”
I said, “No, I'm fine.  It’s quite all right it seems.”

When we arrived at her isolated home,
Everything was sparse, dark and dreary.
Death said, “Not to worry about her dogs,
Decay and Transform, they’re always cheery."

Inside the black gate full of brown vines twirling
Snaking their way up the castle walls,
I was escorted inside by bony Death herself,
Tall, white and shaking just a bit and all.

We got on the elevator and went deep, deep down.
"Floor 777," she said, as I heard that beep sound.
I said to Death, "Why 777?"
"777 is lucky," and she shook her head, "Tsk tsk,
Death is not ewwwwwwww and yucky as it seems."
But standing next to her, I felt the lifeless cold.

“You’re not nervous?” Death said to me.
I lied and said, “Oh, of course, not!”
Death said, “That’s good. That’s why I exist,
To put an end to harboring phony thoughts.”

Well, I admitted, “I was a little afraid.”
Death repeated, “Not to worry. I’m really
Miss Nice and Kind -- sweet as a doll.
You’ll see --We’re going to have a ball.”

Just call me, "Skaldi, Hel, Caillech or Skye."
Her cold bone hands were shaking mine at the time,
I felt my blood turn from fast red to sluggish slow.
I faked confidence and said, "What’s the grand show
Of all those ravens perched in the trees outside?"

"Folks about to die or foolish enough to seek me,
Before their precious time is used up -- false pride."

We walked down dusty halls full of dead folks;
You know the kinds who use to live in graves.
Death said, “Do not worry. Everyone has three homes,
The womb, the world and their last earthen cave.

“Imagine,” Death said as she motioned, “Have a seat,”
She walked around her blood-red oak desk and
She sat down. “If all those dead folks never
Died—that’s very, horrid and sight grotesque!

Scent of chamomile and mugwort wafted about.
Her ticking clock stayed steady on 13 o'clock.

I hesitated to sit down because my worm
Covered chair was nothing but rotting wood.
It seemed to quiver and groan at my approach,
I wondered, Can my 180 lbs. weight be withstood?

“Don’t fret,” replied Death, as she played with
A sharp silver blade. The handles made of skull bones.
“It’s held the strong and the weak without giving out.
The shadow of life is stronger than the strongest stone.

The worms did squirm, but held under my seat,
I didn’t desire to lean back in my live chair.
I sat upright like my parents always said;
I looked at Ms. Death but without a stare.

She turned around to pull out a bulging big book.
She called it her book of Truthful Lies.
Her chair made of live vampire bats did squeak,
The sound: A coffin being pried open for a peep.

“People do not like me,” she began and she flipped
Her short, white bobbed hair. Her eyes, those endless hollows.
She had no breasts; but her hipbones were wide
Enough to have allowed new children to wallow.

She dusted the huge book almost three feet wide;
It was full of dates, places, times and people.
She pointed and said; “These things must die.
To assure the principles of life always stay fresh.”

A silver snake slithered up her arm, and around
Her neck, but Ms. Death did not mind its rounds.
“Child abuse, corporate lies, government manipulation,
Religious misrepresentation, and weakness of financial flesh.

Historical inaccuracies, perfect romantic love,
Corrupting power and poor child rearing techniques.
Weakness in striving, giving up on the challenge
Called ‘life,’ believing in others before themselves.

Utter selfishness and unwillingness to grow and
Discover who they are inside their precious souls!
Do you want me to go on with my 10,000-thing list?
Speechless, I watch as the dust continued to recollect,
While Ms. Death with patience re-wipes and resist.

"What do people think? Life comes without a price!
The price of life is paid in deaths.
Little and little, more and more
Until all pay the ultimate debt.

The body renews every seven years. A youth has
Birthday after birthday. Yet, they never stop to
Consider that to have a birthday, means death
To the younger year before.

If you can figure out a way to avoid these deaths,
Simple and large--I’ll gladly implement your approach.

I thought and we discussed things for many hours.
Her sickle hourglass sands did roll and roll.
Her ticking clock stayed steady on 13 o'clock.
In the end, I discovered she was so correct.
The great divides must continue for life's set
To develop, even if the soul does sometimes fret.

               --THE END--

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