When Death Came Knocking

He stood at my shoulders

breathing down my neck,

his breath a caressing cold,

as I sat, terrified, at my writing desk.

You was the answer to the question

What do you want,

so I took out a pen,

wrote this poem,

and haven’t seen him since.

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9 thoughts on “When Death Came Knocking

    1. Yes I always sense him hovering… but every time I write a poem, I feel a little triumphant πŸ˜‰ Not going into Death without a fight.

      Thanks for the comment, Alice!

      1. I find that having death standing near helps me keep moving on the important things. Dead lasts a lot longer than this flicker of existence. πŸ™‚ I don’t mean this to sound morbid. It’s not like that at all.

Thoughts? I love those.

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