O, I am slain!

 I’ve foreseen my death a thousand times
and I still can’t stop the car from flipping
or the foot from slipping
or the hand from gripping
the knife that simply impales me
from behind an inky arras.

Death doesn’t need a face or a name
or a cause, and still he reaps
and seeks revenge
and stalks the streets
and traces circles up my spine
as if to tease.

And it works:
I follow his every flowing move
through the swell, and gasp
each time he pulls someone under,
cinematic like a horror film
and every part perfectly played.

Death could be a matchless dramatist,
tapping his quill to the second
and timing each exit
with a drop on the page.
How can we always suspect it
yet have him arrive
an unexpected guest?
How can his tales be so ironic,
and yet he be so laconic
when without a word 
he presents a solution
that we never would have guessed?

I would applaud, if I could watch him
but it seems I’m the one on stage,
clinging passionately to cherished corpses,
struggling to breathe between each break.
My lungs mourn the air I exhale
more than I mourn the ones he takes;
nonetheless, I can’t help but gasp
each time my love is stolen away.

Life is lonesome, and I’ll always ask
for something more or something less.
There are many times I want to leave,
or break each urn when I’m bereaved
but if he reached his warm hand out to me
and promised me a freedom united
I would still tear myself away and plead,
Don’t take me; I won’t like it.