Tuesday, November 9, 2010

My family members are dying, one by one.

Wraith


Death has extended
his icy hand,
so it would
appear,
a smirk drying his chapped lips
as he singularly taps the
unsuspecting
shoulder of my family
and blows cold breath
onto its cheeks.
With slender,
black
fingers,
Death
penetrates the
spring
chest
of my relatives
and mind,
syrup leaking
into the veins
and trickling
through the circulatory system
before
blood
and
ink
drip out
of our slightly
open
mouths.
"Why?"
"Why us?"
Death's smirk
simply
grows
into a grin
and he shrugs
his
bony
shoulders,
causing a temporal ripple
down his arms
and
lanky
legs.
He's so thin.

My mother escaped.
She clenched her rosy fists
and shook her head,
demanding a doctor's visit,
albeit somewhat unaware
of the feat she'd just mastered.

Death raises
his
mo
las
ses
brow,
tilts
his
languid
head.

"Which would be worse -
to live as a monster
or die as a good man?"

"I'm never watching that again."
"I warned you."
"Yeah, but I'm never watching that movie again."

Yet, for some reason,
the name
Scorsese
reminds me of a
butterfly.

"It was weird."
"Yeah."
"Something's going on."
"Yeah, I agree."
"It's definitely spiritual."
"Yeah."
And I look to my
finger
nails,
wanting
the subject
to
change.

How long
until Death
rights his
silky head,
ends his
curly smirk
and
dips his
tar-
drenched
finger
nail
into
my
mother's
sternum?

Or mine,
for that
matter?

Her cheeks emulate roses.