Last night along about midnight I left the house with a wheelbarrow and a song I made up as I pushed it along with my alter boy robe on and the moon said how are you I said fine how do you do and by dawn I had picked 1000 black-eyed Susans I started at the church and made a path of flowers all the way to our porch so that my sister who lost her shoes who I know might not be as pretty as yours could walk to the service barefoot.
Death doesn't **** around when she comes to visit. Her kiss is a dark kismet, and her pale lips go well behind her black veil. She whispers her secrets in a dead language now vanquished from the living. She's an unforgiving mistress; an artist who draws your last breath. Death can paint the town red or sneak down the dark alley of your quiet bed.
I saw you looking at my hair when I was busy cooking and you were drinking rye whiskey with me while I wondered if you were pondering fifty shades of gray because of the way your breathing quickened when I said sit down now.
Death is a dark knife that cuts the light through the window. A black car in the night. A burning cigarette bursting on the highway. A fire going out. A gypsy with whiskey breath shaking a black tambourine.