My bed used to be an escape
Where I could go to dream
And think pretty thoughts

Now my bed is just a trap
Filled with nightmares
And the absence of you

I remember your breath on my neck
I remember your hand on my thigh
I remember waking up sore
I remember my clothes being scattered around the floor
But worst of all I remember the look in your eyes as I asked you to stop

It's Blue
      But so are you.
Not that sad Blue/
                                Reflecting from T.V.
But that happy Blue/
                                    That with you I see.

All my life I've dreamed of Pink.
Never written/
                          I don't dream in ink.
But it was happy/
                               I always said
I wanted to be Pink when I was dead.

Who owns those scrawny little feet?    Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face?    Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs?    Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles?    Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts?    Death.
Who owns these questionable brains?    Death.
All this messy blood?    Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes?    Death.
This wicked little tongue?    Death.
This occasional wakefulness?    Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth?    Death.
Who owns all of space?    Death.

Who is stronger than hope?    Death.
Who is stronger than the will?    Death.
Stronger than love?    Death.
Stronger than life?    Death.

But who is stronger than Death?
                           Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.