PRETEND END.

ON DEATH AND HIS GAME

Death is a mere inch
or so away;
he stares in at us

day after day,
hour by hour,
moment by moment.

His cold fingers touch,
icily run down the spine;
shivers remember that?

Well Death
was just trying you out,
giving you the feel.

Death will leave you be
for a year or a day
or maybe

a whole decade
or more;
but it's just

a waiting game,
so get living,
take that vacation,

have that read
or go play pool
or have sex

or eat your fill
until you're ill,
but in the end,

my friend,
Death is there,
rubbing his

bony hands;
but Death’s only

a transporter
to another place,
deeper,

calmer,
warmer,
but Death

won't tell you such,
he'll just pretend
it's the end.