Death’s Stare

When I look forward

I see the eyes of death pierce down

The narrowing stretch between I and he;

His mouth drooling as the scent of my anxiety

Touches his foul nostrils.


I am paralyzed with the eternal presence of his stare:

Where is the meaning if all we can do is wait?

But as I look down, the skull is not yet in my hands,

And my breath is still firmly in my lungs.


As the intensity grows too infinite,

I turn, using all the reason in my body

And face the fertile past:

My birth, my victories and my losses.

I smile,

As the hearth of my heart

Rekindles once more with the warmth of life.


I know, Death’s stare will never be the same again.


My Last Poem

What is the last poem that I’ll ever write?

Will it be at the hands

Of disinterest,

Or at the hands

Of death?


What will the subject be?



Or both intwined?


If I were to become

Famous and lost in pages,

A hundred years down the line

Only for young academics to

Rekindle my lack of rhyme scheme

Would this be the last poem

– the last thought of mine –

To have resurrected life?