Premonition
Past that
neuron-shutting-down-synapses-firing
light display that comes with brain death;
you know, the one most
call an invitation to heaven,
I’m talking months past that
when skin tightens drum-taut
but other parts loosen like primordial gelatin
that squirms with the microbes and maggots
that break down
to build up again.
Somewhere in the grayish-green
miasma once my brain
a bubble of gas surfaces then
exits
through my eye socket.
Its element discharging path sparks the best poem
in history
and I don’t have a pen.
Poetry by Melgmills 