Waiting For Death

lack lustre eyes
soaked
in soap operas, and
white-washed reality,
Life's locked out
of her own home;
now peering into
fading fine print,
life crumbles
like old parchment
with every turn
of the page;
gnarled fingers
of an ageless spirit,
rest on frozen knees -
slowed down, numbed
by an endless struggle
with what is;
Fear -
your ever-faithful companion,
drives you
to padlock locked doors,
to lick your little wounds
that you don't want to heal
for fear of being cast away
like an upturned log,
to pop pills like treats
between meals -
to run away from life?
or death?
Yes, you settle into
the cozy rocking chair,
your eyes worn out
from being watchdogs
in daylight,
when will you truly rest?
when will you know
that the unwelcome guest
is not locked out
from your safe nest,
but sits beside you
in the chair -
next to you,
smiling and waiting
for you to open
your tired lovelorn eyes?

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