Visiting Me

Visiting Me by Marco the moment of truth, when death comes near— he laughs at your somber tones and tickles your unmoved face. no soul to witness the rusty, common blade; the scythe carried with a loose limb, jerking back and forth, roaming to and fro toward a delicate harvest. he picks you indiscriminately— birds without feather, perched in the dead of night, singing the sullen blues in a rapture of swirling eyes. and yet he comes with peace— roaming no longer. his basket is full; the nightmare, half empty. I cry no more, because you are my subject, and my tears are also yours. my death is near, and I welcome every glimpse of your swift delivery.