Dear o’Death, that’s what you’re called
when calls of punchy self-pity ring at three when
you’re alive but fears of close calls of
Theft erase all the flowing blood
you have left.
Dear o’Death, who escaped its clutches
twice. How could I forget
when that’s all you talk about
‘Back in the days’ of when
you’d still know the meaning
of a dazzling life.
I can’t criticise you.
– You escaped Death twice.
I can’t complain,
– you escaped Death twice.
I can’t ask for help –
– you escaped death twice.
You left for a year unannounced and that’s alright.
– death took you thrice.
All that escaping had you forget how to be alive.
You’ve let me behind on a deluded dream-chase
when death had actually killed you three-times already in your life.
What’s it like to be alive,
taking others’ humanity to keep your
o’Death Dear, there’s nothing
left for your namesake to take.