Cell-Free Zone

This is a really bad sentence, and thus is perfect, but if it is good it can never truly be bad so in return it is horrible.

The ruler bends and breaks

No more can it take

No longer can it size

The tape measure will rise

Much like the heart and mind

Just in different time.

For now we’ll just be happy

And only sometimes pretty sappy.

A river that flows

To a sea of autumn leaves

Among a ship and bow

Is where we share our grief

From lands far and near 

They say we gather here

The day that heaven sighed

She got her wings that night

As though her touch could reach 

Among the willowed trees 

They sat together and listened 

To her old life stories

Rivers flooded their eyes 

As they walked away, in belief

That they said their last goodbye’s 

To a sea of autumn leaves

Death is like a river. 

Or like a photograph of a river.

Or maybe a drawing of a photograph of a river.

Or it’s like a written description of the sound of leaves falling into the river.

Or perhaps it a chart showing how the rapids are strong enough to drown a grizzly bear.

Or else it’s like a crumbling mountain brought down by the wind as it changes directions, making craters in the area below,

And the ground surrounding the mountain is beaten down by sheer unrelenting force until it eventually caves in on itself,

And the land will forever carry the weight of that mountain, even as vines cover it’s crumbled boulders and rivers flood it’s craters.