I haven't tried my hand at poetry in many years--close to a decade I would imagine.  I have had many classes on poetry, and I've taught it before, but my education has been focused primarily on fiction. 

I don't know what motivated these emotions to emerge as a poem.  This is a rough draft, still so raw.  It was the first death in years for my family.  It was also my first poem in years.  My grandmother died in hospice care almost a year ago now.  I wrote this not long after:

Vaseline, thick and glistening,

Smears a shine on pallid

Cheeks and lips, too

Frail to kiss.

Blue reigns now,

Veins thinning from a lack

Of hydration and nutrients,

Tinting the lips violet,

Filming eyes, open

Less each hour. We

Feel blue like the celestial sea

She crosses, and we

Wade and wait

to cross.

Death wears blue, not

Black like folklore claims; He

creeps into a room, a burglar

we left a key for. Not a Reaper.

No scythe. This thievery is invited.