Why does one have to be
dead to be considered?  

Fine! I am dead. Consider this.  

Consider the living and the
tolerated death between breaths,

Consider the repeated
stabs of recycled days,

the preparation we gather as
decaying boquets for a final blow,

See how death roams the streets,  
and in the gargling of human feet,

See how we shutter in unison when
she peeks her head into our mirrors,

gazing back at us as wrinkles and error,
how she makes us halt our breathe

although our hearts tells us
its not over yet, it is not over yet.

so let it be known,
clear as day,

that I shall always stop
for the painters paints,
            still wet

I shall always stop
for the writers words,
           still fresh,

for if death shall stop for me
than I shall stop for heartbeat.