A Treaty with Death

Often I’m told that

he waits in the

shadows for curious spectators.

But I’ve looked

for him,

throwing myself into the

dusk.  He hides

from me,

refusing to take me

away into that far off land.

He’s a coward, and

at least I’m not

afraid to say it.

Like the tiger,

the lion, the

bear, he’s feared

when really, he’s

harmless.  Humans tend to

fear the unknown like

his motives and place

of dwelling.  Ha.

He’s a coward, trust

me.  It’s not him

who stabs you

in the back or sends

the bullet through

your heart.  No,

he stands by and

waits for you to

stop twitching.

He’s terrified of

anything that’s living—

that’s you, and

me.  But he will begin

to taunt you as

he does me,

stepping close but then

retreating as you

squint to see.

His very touch

is agony, my

friends.  Pain is in the

prints of his fingers,

lining the creases

of his nails.  A

scream tears from

our lungs and he

lingers, for the noise

gives him strength and

life.  ‘Tis the only

way to keep him near,

to let him revive

as you speak your

words, which clamber

down on deaf ears,

a nuisance, perhaps,

but nothing more.

But, you see,

I now get my

revenge, for I am

shining light onto his

deeds.  But there is

nothing he can do, for

his pride ensures

that he will turn on

himself before he

allows me to perish.

It is in this way

that I have made

myself immortal.  But

that is not without

its burdens.  For I

will still grow

old and useless,

lose my mind and

beauty, but with

no end.  I will never

accomplish the greatest,

final task, and for

that, I will be

looked on as a coward

and a freak.  But

as I crumble down to

dust, he turns a

blind eye, pride taking

the place of mercy.

But I am the same

way, in a sense.  I

will suffer an entire

lifetime and eternity

before I request

that mercy.  And

I will never

stop taunting.


By Megan