And Death Spoke

The big grey building changes the landscape as I look
across the horizon toward the north.
In the sky the clouds appear as a fuzzy
blanket of dark moving toward the west.
Supposedly it rains, for I can see drops
in the puddles, though feel nothing hitting my face.

The air is a chilly soul today, or so it feels to me.
I’m shivery and shaky, and appear the only one affected.
The figures around walk leisurely and seem in no hurry
to escape the elements as I am. But then I always hurry.
The others content themselves with life and enjoy it
while I am always running after it-after something to enjoy.

This flash of self-awareness reveals itself while the wind
blows across the parking lot in front of the big grey building.
While the raindrops are splashing up the puddles, and not landing on
me and the cold air is chilling only me-I have these thoughts-that
maybe Death was right and I should take heed.

And slow the hell down.

I cross to the door, seeking the warmth promised by the yellow
lights. But the feeling that I could have stood in that parking
lot-smack in the middle of it, breathing the fibers of that dark
blanket sky-that I could remain there until dark fell, and not be
harmed by passing cars and wandering people-left me colder
even than that rain I could not feel.

Maybe to me slow means invisible.
If I am not in a hurry, what am I?
Death is not always right.

I turn and run-away from that big grey building where
the drops of rain that I can’t feel bounce in the puddles-away
and through the air’s chilly soul, surrounded by the sky’s fuzzy
dark blanket-I run.

And I am hurry, hurry, hurrying once more-after life,
after something to enjoy and I wonder to myself as I wrap
my arms about me for warmth-I wonder if I find it, will
I be too hurried to notice?

And so I wait for Death to speak again.

And hope I can hear over the pounding of my feet on asphalt-
through the knee-knocking and teeth chattering cold-blanket sky.