No one dies before her time.
But, happy is he who dies, punctually.
Loving is the God who takes His children
from this mucky, sick earth
prior to the great eruption.
Before the living must bare witness
to the penalties of past generations
accumulated sins,
falling into a future,
guilty only by association.
We who survive today must mourn.
But after, we might celebrate
the luck of those blessed little rug rats.
Poems by Ken 