Poems about Reminders of Death and Mortality

Poems about Parts of Life and Living that Remind Me of Death and Mortality

I've written many poems about death and dying, as have many, many other people. However, some of the poetry I write is not focused on the death and dying itself, but deals with parts of life that remind me of the fact that everything dies or that people are dying needlessly.

I created this page for my poems about situations, observations, and experiences from my everyday life that make me think about death, dying, and mortality. As time goes by I'll add more related poems and content to this page.

People on autopilot from breath to breath,

inhabiting life rather than living it,

wandering heedlessly toward death

taking what comes, never giving it.

Memento Mori.

Remember death,

so you can remember to live.

— Kylyssa Shay

Cracked By The Casual, White Coated Thief

The paint of my new diagnosis
begins to peel and crack
before its final coat
has even been applied by an oncologist.
My fight and flight tangle themselves up.
Running trips over combat,
though there is no one to defeat,
but my own thrashing mind.
I try to fan my anger,
because it's less distressing
than existential dread.
Odd, how strangely clean it feels,
death glowing painfully in my belly.
Rage washes me in memory.
White coat said,
"heavy woman bleed heavy,"
as if it were true,
as if it made grammatical sense.
"You need to lose weight
and you don't need anything for pain,"
tripped from lips.
"I only believe in treating rheumatoid arthritis patients and terminal cancer patients for pain," White Coat spat out.
Here I am, and it is what it is.
It's not in my head; my pain is real.
I'm not wasting what little time you left me.

Kylyssa Shay

Stop Killing the Soldiers when They Come Home from War

Becoming homeless is a bit like getting conscripted into a war over resources. But the horrible, horrible twist is that you don't get conscripted into the army to fight for your society, you get declared the enemy and there's no "other side" for you to defect to. You are isolated and kept hidden, dehumanized by those who decided you were the enemy and a useless eater.

There are no bombs or grenades and seldom any automatic weapons involved; instead it's a slow war of attrition waged with indirect tactics. This puts the killing and the horrible aspects of war even further removed from the soldiers fighting against you than remote weapons do. There are few embedded reporters to get news out from the trenches and much of what they can report doesn't happen fast enough on film and can't be captured with a cell phone camera.

The state of homelessness is a state of being under siege. You are cut off from food, shelter, and a place in society. You are the war refugees of siege by elements of your own society. It's brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor, parents against children and vice versa.

Actual soldiers, physically and emotionally wounded by serving their country, all too often find themselves in a new war once they come home, one they aren't equipped to fight. We need to stop killing them with poverty and neglect when they come home. We need to stop fighting our own defenders.

Stop Killing the Soldiers

Attention friends and neighbors,

set aside your labors.

There's a siege upon your soldiers

and it's nowhere near the borders.

It's right there rubbin' your shoulders.

Go ahead and follow orders-

the closer to the war you'll be,

with so much more for you to see.

Women with stars on their chests

and purple hearts upon their sleeves

do their ultimate of bests

but the memory never leaves.

Conscripted into the ranks of the homeless

by living avatars of greed

telling them to be hopeless

and laughing at their need.

Walkin' down main street

I see another soldier

shaking a tin can, playin' to a beat.

Recommended

Ambulance’s Siren

He just keeps gettin' older

no matter how he tries

slow and steady always wins that race.

Eventually he dies,

not even a smile on his face.

not even a drop of blood on his sleeve

not even a trace of gunshot residue

no evidence, not a single clue

but he died in combat

and he died fighting you.

I know you've got your orders,

but what is worth fighting for?

I Hate the Sound of Coughing

The bark of air from struggling lungs

hounds deathbeds and homeless shelters.

It rings across tiled floors and stutters on stone walls

in hospitals and alleys.

It's the sound of a being fighting to live,

lungs striving to make room for air itself.

It sounds like practice for the death rattle,

the gasp, and the moan.

I hear the pained kick of heels in it and

the slow, leaden hot pain

of being eaten alive by one's own cells.

It's a reminder and a warning

like a hound's broken, belling call cut short by a gunshot.

Death is near and not just inside you.

It's inside everyone you love,

many of whom you'll outlive

and none of whom you'll completely survive.