Death must have woken up late today
I still feel his presence, creeping near.
Small hands clutch mine as we wait for him,
Tight fingers shaking on the pages, here.
Rows of letters blur in my eyes, my voice,
A small chest rattles with its slow breaths
Cruelly, the book’s poor storyline,
Throws away my chance to forget Death’s trek.
I wait, perhaps if we read a little longer,
On this armchair by a fire, half-dead,
No deity will come here for my son-- I won’t have to say sorry yet.