strange bedfellows

an old poem about trading places with mr. grim reaper for a night. no, it is not about killing people.

Death sleeps in my bed tonight
and I, in his.
He told me that he felt exhausted from
his journey to find me and
apperantly he was amazed that I was
so difficult to catch.
In return for one good night's sleep
here on earth, I was granted
one request other than the obvious.
I said to him that I wanted to know things,
interesting things, incredible things,
outrageous things, and silly things,
things of every nature and reality,
to which he replied; "If it is knowledge
that you seek, young boy, then you shall have it."
So here I sit, bolt upright in an exquisite mess
of satin pillows and the like, wondering how
I could have been such a fool as to ask
for all knowledge; all understanding.
And while I lay here and shake and sweat,
driven mad by suddenly knowing
all there ever will be to know, I'm certain
that Death is sleeping quite comfortably
in my bed, or perhaps staring at the ceiling,
wishing he could stay forever.