Death Waits
Death
waits to be invited in,
while thumping his foot
and checking his watch.
He's a busy man, I'm afraid,
with a seven-day schedule
and a twenty-four hour shift.
You shrug and flip him off,
settling in your chair,
leaving him lingering
another day.
Cancer gnaws
at your body
as if it were a chicken bone
to be greedily devoured,
vampire sucking your strength.
Death
threatens a battering ram,
catcalling
from the other side.
You block the door
with your back,
refusing to let him in
just yet.
His eyes, grills,
sear you
with the Knowledge .
Death is a viper.
One day
he will bring down
the door
and invite himself in.