Death

My sister asked me today what I thought of Death,
I could not answer her question,
I could not understand what she was asking.

Was she asking me if I believed in Death?
Maybe I don’t.
Maybe we all hide in the ground,
Until no one is near,
Then we skirt in the forests,
Telling each other our scars and our stories.

Was she asking me if I hated Death?
Maybe I don’t.
Maybe Death sends me a postcard once in a while,
Asking me out for dinner this Friday at 9.
But I’d be too busy in my affair with Life, and I’d send him a letter apologizing.
Maybe I’d even ask the florist to send him a rose or two.

Was she asking me if I sought Death?
If I spend my waking hours peeking around the corners,
Trying to catch the man in the dark cloak, hiding in the shadows?
Playing with permanence and evanescence,
Threatening to break up with everything in this world?

Maybe she was asking me what happens when Death comes.
Maybe she was asking me if I believed in a world beyond this one,
One where judgment lies in the blurred lines of intent and action.
A world where people pay prices and reap rewards.

I think she knew my answer.
That I did not want to be anything more than I am.
That I wanted my Death to be simple and complete.
To be mortal in every sense of the word.
To be without a Soul, to be without forever.

And I think
She was disappointed when I said
That I simply did not know what I thought of Death