Death Wins

Death

Is subtle.
It hides its path of destruction
in shock.
Numbs you.

The pain doesn’t bore a pit in your stomach as you gaze
Upon the fast-atrophying corpse.
As you stare unrequited
Into those pellucid, spark-less eyes.
Grasp those marble cold hands.

You go through the rituals of Death,
Detached.

No.
It hits you only when
You catch her laugh, floating
On a figment of your imagination.
And your heart flutters for a moment.

Hits
When in times of loneliness
You reach for the phone to call her
And realize with a jolt,
That she doesn’t exist.

The hollowness slowly worms its way inside.
Replaces her.
You learn to accept…
Time and sleep heal, perhaps too much.


…

Death moves on.
As do you.