Musings of an Insomniac

Reluctant Host

I long for the day when

His doorstep will be right in front of me,

Above it a black slab of wood

With an ornate knocker.

My hand, so pale in the fading moonlight,

Drifting over the handle.

One knock.

Two.

"What young traveller

Dares to arrive on my doorstep

And ask for escape?

Is it you,

With your eyes so haunted

And your skin so young?

You?

Best to turn back, now,

While you still have time,

For we will cross paths eventually,

And your day is not today."

His words stab me,

An oral knife in my heart.

"Yes, it is I,

The young traveller,

With haunted eyes and young skin,

And a desire for escape.

I do not wish to turn back

And face your enemy Life,

For he is cruel and unforgiving."

I watch his eyes.

Dark like my soul,

They roam my desperate face,

Wandering to the pills in my hand

And the rope around my neck.

"Alas, child,

You are too young,

But so close.

Enter quickly,

Move into my embrace,

Venture with me into oblivion."

So I do.

His arms wrap around me,

Cloaked in black and time,

And I leave the enemy Life.