A Farmer Died In His Sleep

Door ajar,
Dreams and moonbeams spilling in
The feet are cold in this bed
Here attached to the damned and dreaming dead

The quiet removal of fluids comes here
As the skin pulls back the years
To expose the meat that was hid by toil
And the sheets will molder

I suppose this is fitting
A quiet death in a lonely old house
Behind an old lonely barn
Forgotten like last weeks chores…


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