I was awoken to find death standing at the side of my bed.
He told me:
“I like your poetry
and I won’t come back until your 80th year”.
To which I agreed
It sounded relatively clear.
“You won’t like life after these years; I will do you a favour because of the things you write on paper”.
And with those words, he fled with his face hidden by the shadow of black death.
Smiling, while awakening through scintillations from the radiance of the sun;
that hangs every morning through the white window – slightly undone.
A realisation happened.
Did I make a deal with death?
Or was he showing me the dream dimension;
the place I knew when I was dead.
Only the future will tell, as I write these words and weep for the years ahead.