Lovers tumble
in the arms of Death;
infatuated with the feel
of omnipotence.

won’t be me, won’t be me

They stand aloft
of the raging sea
teasing the pull
of the crashing waves
with a laugh on their lips
and the spray on their face

won’t be me, won’t be me

Tiptoe across the railroad bridge
the bungee nooses round their feet,
the ground so tempting
the air so sweet
the thrum of the rails
as the steel wheels meet
the edge of the grave
the beat of the heart;
the shiver of fear
in the deepest parts
of psyches unhinged
by a lust for life.

It won’t get me, it won’t get me

But time before time
and much too soon
in the black stench of night
and the light of the moon
in soft, velvet boxes
with scented pillows
buried in gardens
beneath weeping willows

They cry for you, they weep for you

Who read every tome
and still never learned
that we all will surrender
to hunger’s burn…

And that Death always wins…

All the time.