She will clutch you, stamped with her number
Ride upon her black shroud, slumped, hanger-on
Relax. Take a nap even.
Death is wide eyed and knows where she’s headed.
She waves a flag in one withered hand
Does it celebrate some glorious pursuit?
No, it is ragged with its own number
Old Death, cloaked and harried
The lines on her face spell out her name:
Deep ruts, the cracks of dry earth
Ennui imprinted in her gaze, blank as a blue sky
Aged, as a care can age, yet remain eternal
Tight-lipped, to yield no secrets about the
Hereafter, where she bears her load, bent double.