I'm quietly asleep in the attic of dreams
when DEATH, goddess of nevers
suddenly stands on my chest in her red stilettos
I look up her skirt and see only darkness
and she stamps on my
stamps on AH!
stamps on my

Death hauls me up and drags me downstairs
No, but thank god it's all been a mistake
just a little case of dyspepsia
so whose is this blazing body that embraces me?
whose burning breasts are pressed to my face?
whose grip tightens and tightens around me?
I can't
I can't
I really can't

Death doesn't follow me to the ambulance
but at an upstairs window
I see a charred, fleshless hand wave for a moment

& later that day in a hospital bed
I feel her skeletal fingers at my throat
till hope brushes them away
for now
but only
for now

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This poem by Alan McDonald: copyright reserved.