The Death of Small Deaths

Big deaths are all the rage.

 

Really large deaths,

absurd if possible, highly

disproportionate to the size of life.

 

Death from the legs

up, endless agony.

 

I bit my tongue,

really hard, there might

have been a bit of blood

maybe, I think

some of my taste buds died.

 

I threw them

an extremely lavish funeral.

 

We all got really drunk after,

me and my buds.

 

There was a coyote

dead on the side of the road,

could’ve been there for days.

 

I think someone had already

presided over its body,

a lovely eulogy,

there were rumors,

but I wrote a fresh one

just in case.

 

My aunt died

—sorry, typo—

my ant died, the last

remnant and ringleader of my

childhood flea circus.

 

There was much moaning

and wailing

and gnashing of teeth.

 

We gnashed our teeth

so hard that someone

swallowed a filling.

 

We mourned the filling.

 

The world is a terrible place,

big deaths all around.

 

No one wants a small death these days.

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