Death is an Asshole

I’m tired of looking at Death’s face,
smelling his putrid breath and
watching him leer down
at the ones I love.

I hate the way he slithers in
all cocky and sure of himself,
delighting in our grief,
rejoicing in our pain.

Go on then, you bastard.

Yes, we cry and mourn.
We weep, sigh, and hang our heads
but really all you have
in your crusty, mottled hands,
is a mere husk; the shell that once
held the golden light
of a human spirit.

So, go.

Scuttle away
clutching your prize, so full of glee.
You will get home to find it empty.
The prize already claimed,
The light already illuminating
another space.

We get to keep
tiny glittering pieces;
in memories or faces,
familiar scents, phrases and
songs that we will hear.

We get shining gold dust

You get nothing