Death would not deign to visit me
Not with salute or fatal formality
I’ve written letters, invitations to dine
Perhaps to dance after some wine.
He has yet to entreat a call
I fear he may not come at all.
Given credit, I’m one apt to hide,
I do not tread were he abides.
Occasionally,
He responds to me
In manners and way
Peculiar for this time of day
With presage cryptic, but meaning well
That I cannot hear a personal bell
Like that of towers
When it tolls between the hours,
That his design
(this life of mine)
Will come a calm, inaudible chime
But only in my due time.
Until he comes, for him I suffer
From his disappointments I may grow tougher.
That, my friend, the worst of hells
And it seems Death, from what I tell,
Is doing his job and doing it well.