The written riddle embraces me
As I take myself out to sea
To be buried as ash
In a cremated dash.
After I am gone
I will do no wrong
By me or you.
As I have said, "Adieu"
As calmly as possible to you.
Death is not a tumble or a fall
But a chance to be redeemed
Into the loving seams
Of the elders who passed before me.
It is their pure clothes I see
All pressed so perfectly;
As worn at the blessed departures.
Death is not torture;
It is a passing,
Not a harbored harassing,
Unless one is bad,
As others are not sad.
Evil leaves to a weevilled will
And becomes evil.
Negativity always falls to south
And no words come out of mouth.
I have many words of composure
For those of golden and absurd exposure.
Theatre, I love,
It is a drama of my kind above.
Inside the alcove,
I rest now as I roam.
The heavenly Summer land
Takes me hand in hand
To a place of bliss
Where I receive Death's final kiss
And I am able to be picturesque
For me the Reaperess is never grotesque.
I know not who is chosen
But when I am composing
I dream of sheer brilliance and success.
Death, for me, is rest.
Here, in the afterlife, all riddles are solved.
All sins are absolved.
Most losses are gained
When it is finally never the same.
Death's riddle
Can be rushed and played out on a fierce fiddle.
The subtle song remains aloud
As we cover the face with a shroud.
Those captured wish peace.
Those, once fractured are pieced and now released.
Jennifer A. Fulco is a magna cum laude graduate of the University of Hartford, Connecticut. She has co-edited literary magazines at the University of Connecticut and the University of Hartford. Her poetry has also been featured in The American Dissident and Transcendent Visions. Since 1986, Jennifer says she has exhibited symptoms of a bipolar disorder. She dedicates her poetry to her mother, Jane, who allowed Jennifer to concentrate on her studies and artwork. Jennifer lives in upstate New York with her sister and their two cats.