i've lived next door to death my entire life. he was always a short walk away, waiting for me to knock on his door and ask if he wanted to buy some flowers. i can't remember a time where death didn't linger on the edges of our family gatherings, a light blanket over our happiness. years before i was born, death wrapped his shadow around the family once. they peeled back the darkness with shaking hands.
a few years later, still before me, death moved back into the neighborhood. he took us up in a tight grasp and refused to let go. we struggled and kicked and shoved but had little effect. i was born into a world where his darkness loomed on the horizon, waiting to steal one of us away. we didn't go anywhere. the fight continued, full force. we punched and death punched back, a never-ending boxing match between life and death. over time, death weakened his grasp. we hadn't escaped but we had bought more time. instead of fighting, we were living. we were giving death a stunning blow whenever we felt his shadow approaching. i've never lived in a world where the fog of death didn't loom, waiting to wrap its twisting finger around us; i await the day when the air is clear.
YOU ARE READING
a last note from your narrator
Poetrypeople write because no one listens - h.h. a collection of short stories written in various points in my life. mostly bad points. fair warning. title from the book thief by markus zusak i...
