Diarrhoea after eating a stollen fruit

A leap off a cloudy cliff
And I fell into this coffin.
Life, I don’t throw all my coins for it
For all its daily pollution,
But death, despite this constant smart,
I am not at that hurried trot
To slide into on a greasy glass.
So I wait for my time beyond
Where the fire is lapping the wasted wind
As will consume my greasy waiter waiting to
Put counterfeit coins on my dead eyes.

Is death weightless, like dream,
And not subject to gravitation?

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