“Go”
As the path split in the old dirt road, the runner wept and did as she was told. She knew this day was coming. Still, she kept on running. Her hiding place was very close. 40 or 50 yards at most. She could see the birch tree, finally. Like a ball player sliding into home, she extended her arm with a groan. Her gun, now pointed at him. She whispered “You will never force me to run again.” He lay dead in the leaves. For the first time in years, she could breath.
By: Benz
©8-6-19
r i s e
my name is death.
and i am here to collect.
last year, your husband took his last breath;
last year, your daughter finally felt like it was too much to be perfect.
it was supposed to be your end, too.
the losses were supposed to push you over the edge—
of your mind’s zoo,
of the nearby pier’s ledge.
you were never meant to survive.
between work, bills, and a single child left,
you were meant to take the dive.
i am here to collect because your life was theft.
you robbed me of my rightful sword
and sneered as you snapped it in half.
dear, i am your lord.
and yet, at me, you cried out in a laugh.
it has been so long since the time
when you would have accepted my knife,
for your love of a forever nighttime
made you desperate to end your life.
but being a glorious king,
i waited. for there was more loss to wreak.
for you, a purgatory i wanted to bring.
with greedy eyes, i wanted you to watch you grow weak.
and now i am here to collect,
but suddenly you are not so desperate anymore.
your mind no longer feels the usual neglect;
your body does not wear scarlet stains as it did before.
i am here to collect,
but you are ready.
with an army of support to protect,
with one amazing son to keep you steady.
i am here to collect,
but your heart’s ashes have blossomed into a flower.
armed with love and self-respect,
you have risen above my fatal power.
