Death--the capitalized one--
in his cosplay hoodie
holding his skateboard
is as dull as junk mail.
It's lying there dying that's terrifying.
That's when the real demons throw down their smokes
and get to work,
their feet up to the ankles in mud.
It's being left behind that's gutting.
It's the empty mug on the other side of the table
white as any skull,
that sends an earthquake along the bones.
Death--you know the one I mean--
is just a messenger
an ambulatory text
an intern dispatched to do the grunt work.
Save your fear for the stupidly almighty hours
killing that kiss, that poem, that dream
you had on the tip of your life
that's never going to come to you now.
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Spirit, what do you wish to tell us?