Death lives in London.
Death lives at number 7.
Death has one day off every 100 years.
Death dies once every 100 years, after his day off.
Death has no friends, even though he is nice.
Death is not free.
Sometimes it shows its worst face.
That day, it came to me and took something that belonged to us.
That day, it stabbed a poisoned dagger straight into my heart.
Even Dreaming was unable to remove it.
His sister Despair was my comfort and support.
Time.
Time was the father of Death, Dreaming and Despair.
He was above them.
He was the one who ultimately saved me from the end.
The world and reality did not want to wait for me.
For three years, I have been trying to catch up in a day, or maybe an hour.
I am racing against myself.
Because others are far away...
I am left behind alone, and with me something new.
A new dimension of knowledge:
Death
Dreaming
Despair
And where is the Future?
Ps. Dear Death,
I hope you were like a Mother to this little one and safely escorted it to Him.
YOU ARE READING
Section of Dead Times and Poets
PoetryThis small volume contains a collection of my life's wisdom, dilemmas, downfalls. All of this is related to the burden of youth, complicated human relationships, both friendship and love. In all this chaos there is some hope and solace. For more ope...
