Poetry

I laugh at death,
a smile he does bring,
as he bears his jaws.
The more I feel his breath,
the louder I sing,
grinning at his gaping maw.
 
For sixty, seventy maybe eighty years,
he chases after me, constantly,
rapping my knuckles, hunching my spine,
but I have conquered all my fears,
so never does he frighten me,
though my vision dims and hearing declines.
 
He mocks my mortality,
but I could not care less,
for he will be my last dream,
my final unrelenting casualty,
although he has failed to impress,
as he serenades time's harem.
 
I keep luring him in,
only to push him further away,
for I am not ready to die.
I will only deny him,
living on for another day,
saving and savouring that last goodbye!
 
(C) Dale Mullock