Death patted the worn leather couch.
Placed in frigid temperatures…the seat seemed to come from 1970…or there about.
He did not offer a love song.
Though in his icy stare…
it had been apparent to see the End wished for me to stay.
His movement so flawed, so free, like a cold sweat on a summer’s day.
If I could only pass Death by…
There would be no need to ask why.
Positioned knee to knee…
‘should I stay or should I go.’
With a chance glance to smoke from a January sky…
I turned back and Death had gone.
Leaving me with only lyrics to a love song.
