The Humor in Death
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
The mass of humans feels a ghostly pulse
Inside their minds because those brains are weak.
The thought of death makes all of them convulse
With panic. Most of them then, flopping, seek
Escape from heft of fate. Religions rise.
They all tell lies. The biggest is that souls
Don’t die. . . They live forever . . . Then these lies . . .
Proliferate. Religions’ thoughts are poles
Apart. Some say that souls move on to be
In other realms, or in another brain,
A transmigration to a bumble bee
Perhaps. Yes, doctrines then become insane.
All faiths refuse to give a proof that Soul
Exists, so . . . really . . . very . . . sadly . . . droll.
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