poetry

Riding The Reaper

we drive today

on friday

the thirteen

toward that eternal battle

between life and death,

hoping

against hope for

good news

good friendship

good times

even if they could be

the last.

i have never faced death

myself,

though

he teased me once

with a glimpse

many years ago

as our car spun around

and slammed into

a ditch.

he has taunted me

many times hence

by plucking

the ones i love

from my life

one

by

one

till i call out to him

for relief.

but he is like a cat,

never coming when called.

choosing instead

to be coy

in our game

where i am the mouse.

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