Poetry 5: What does death look like?

I stand, waiting, beneath a lonely streetlight,
Smashed,
Watching the swinging club held by one already
Gashed.
He with a knife grins too widely from ruined
Jaw,
Dripping red from nose and ears, kneels before my
Law.
What does death look like?
He looks like me.

I stand, curtained, in a well monitored
Room
With one who yearns hourly for womb or
Tomb
That long pain and crushing solitude can
Mend,
He gasps and throbs slowly toward welcomed
End,
What does death look like?
He looks like me.

I stand, exposed, in chaotic
Fields
Where shattering crash and chattering fire
Yields
At last to deafening silence and rending
Moans
Of brave men guarding homelands with their own
Bones.
What does death look like?
He looks like me.

I stand, even I, aghast at one led up a
Hill
Where he need not be, though I am
Still.
Yet him, too, I sadly
Take,
Until he give me new meaning and Sunday
Wake.

What does death look like?
He is fearful,
He is glorious.
He was the end,
He is the beginning.
He is stricken with grief,
He is full of joy.
He looks like me.