We know midnight poetry would not happen
On re-regurgitation of stuff, imagining trouble
In way out places, in body parts, as the clock
Strikes ominously at midnight hours, one by one.
Some salt of soda make cannot make food go.
It is found food is the culprit, making noises
And swirling like a typhoon, in the lower base.
We can't possibly cross-check on this insight later
Since we wouldn't know we are dead in the deep.
No way of checking whether or not we are dead.
Pity that we can't write a death poem as after-fact.