A Death Wish Of The Unfortunate Stand-by
sometimes, when i stand waiting for someone who does not come
i whistle
for death, as though it is a friend and i am the willing one to go with it in its new journey hoping that perhaps i may like it
finally, when i do not have to go back and retrace my origin and then regret,
and death hears it and comes to me and asks me if i am going with him
to an escapade,
an adventure,
for death is an escape,
a closing of a door,
a making of a wall,
a locking of a window,
a stopping of a noise of an engine
on the street,
and when death is nearer, i begin to fear and ask myself,
what shall happen next?
and i deny i whistled for it, and i assure it that it is simply a mistake, a wrong call,
a slip of my tongue
and death believes me,
for death is a respecter of our own misfortune,
our errors, our negligence and even pretensions,
a keeper sometimes of our own lies,
and death leaves me, and i have sighs, i doubt what i really want,
and sadly, i wish i had told it the truth.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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