I am not a poet, but I do write poems for class, when I have to.

If the sound of an angel falling to earth is comparable
To the unexpected death of a favored child then I
See no reason at all why you canít put your money where
Your mouth is and never forget the people who helped
You get to where you are today- you might have to kill
Them later because dead men tell no secrets and the time
That it takes to cross a room is directly proportionate to the
Attractiveness of a member of the opposite sex giving you
The eye from the shadows that you avoid because in the dark
We come face to face with our own private hells and sharing
Is caring they say as they wax poetic over steaming cups
Of self-indulgence and try to make sense of the randomness
That is life: a sequence of glass-blown beads strung out on
A chain of being going on and on until the old lady with
The golden shears suddenly decides to cut your thread.

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