To My Friend Named ‘Death’

Death,

You see yourself
as empty black stone;
a building with no purpose.
You claim the ground
beneath your feet
is thin,
with flames
beneath the surface.
The days gape wide,
swallow you whole,
for you to past through
half-digested
out the other side,
and you say you can
smell
the stench
of yourself.

Death,
that’s how you see
yourself.

Death,
look up
from that thin earth
and the gaping maw
of tomorrow.
Look up
till your skull
hits your back
and see the expanse.

Breathe it all in.

And breathe out feathers,
which reach up,
like fingers,
stretching to beat down
every ounce of gravity
that kept you down.
Beat off all the ash
and muck
your soul collected.
Lift your feet
from the hot floor,
out the window
or the door,
up high,
hair back
like a streamer.

Death,
you were always meant
to fly.

Whether you think so
or not.
Muck covered, burnt, or forgotten.

And be the reaper
of your own
happiness.