Poor Pitiful Death
Poor pitiful Death,
lost his way, didn’t know what to do when I died.
Challenge me to a duel — saw my Dad and ran.
I saw him though bowed – one knee – at my side
everyone in white except him
as I walked down the aisle.
One knee he kept in defiance delightfully for
he found pride raking lost souls
anticipating dragging my corpse
like the Axis at Auschwitz.
I cackle uninhibited at his hollow peace–
not to mock, just that the moment of fulfillment–
my wedding night– has come
and I will meet it unrestrained.
Author Note: i am the metaphorical bride of Jesus Christ at the end of all days when i become whole and perfect. along the aisle i see a "grim reaper like" figure. death has to bow to me instead of me bowing to him, because i know the One who can cheat death. after all He made death.
About the author
I live with my wife, an artist, in Indianapolis. Besides poetry, I like to take photographs, read books, travel overseas, and listen to news/political podcasts, college lectures and classic literature. You can read about my approach to poetry on my poetics page. To stay in touch, follow me on Twitter or connect on a variety of other social networks.
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