Death is not how you think she is
or how I think she is.
She is silently staring
from a dark corner
in a shady alley.
She is tall, slim,
like a skyscraper.
She has dark, long hair,
that falls to the earth and covers it, like curtains.
(It blinds us.)
She is beautiful when seen from afar.
She waits for you,
patiently,
on that old motel bed with spread arms (and legs).
Her eyes are deep,
mirror-like.
They show you what it could be.
And her lips whisper empty promises (falacies).
Death smiles at you.
(she likes to smile)
You can see her yellow,
splintered teeth,
that reek of coffee and cigarettes.
From her mansion, she laughs,
throws *****.
Spreads pests,
while drinking wine she collected
as you cut your wrists with expertise.
It falls like a stream of crimson
inside her cup.
What a delight!
You give her that alcohol (addictive).
Death cries when she loses
does not go to funerals.
Jumps the rope with a bag of bones.
And sometimes comes
as soon as you call.
Deep down, she is very lonely.
Wishes for love.
Wishes for you to love her.
You wish to love her too.
(It is easier than loving yourself)
All words in brackets are whispers. The entire thing was a vision, meant to be a portrait. Now a vague poem, that has been in the works since 2015 (and perhaps will continue to be).
Thanks for reading!
