I’ve railed at the heavens,
Cursed and cried,
Tried to rip out that cold, grey stone that’s lodged itself between my fourth and fifth ribs.
When confronted, Death shrugged and smiled a sad smile,
Like, “What did you expect? You know I’m at the end of every rainbow, the finale to every concert, the resolution of every song.”
So I hauled off and punched him. Right in his smug face.
He acted as if it hurt him more than he’d hurt me.
Part of me appreciated that, but I’m still pissed.
And so very sad.
In the past week I’ve lost three friends–two from my childhood and one I’ve known only a precious few years. Death can go suck eggs. This rant is for Mike, McArthur, and Julie.