I was Death dressed to the nines,
in His Sunday best, on the way to
Grandmother's house for roast and mashed potatoes.

I was Death at a table,
surrounded by friends,
playing games and sipping champagne-
unaware of everything.

I was Death in a costume,
knocking on doors to empty houses
in the middle of November;
forgetful of how Time flies.

I was Death on a road,
aching for a night sky,
lost to the blaze
of flashing lights.

I was Death alone in a city,
in awe of the sights; the sounds;
but most of all the people,
so much like Himself.

I am Death, alone in a room-
locked from the outside-
no windows; no mirrors; no light,
no way of knowing who I Am,
who I Was, or who I Could Be.

I am Death, so tightly wound
into one Image of who I
Am supposed to be,
so haunted by myself,
that I’ve lost sight -