Uncalled, Unwitting, Unwelcome

Not all guests are invited. Not all guests want to be there. Not all guests are ruthlessly honest.

A guest is a guest, no matter what. Or whom. Photo by Payton Tuttle on Unsplash

I saw the face of death, today
          not in the linens, cold,
          or caskets, old,
          nor the frigid licks of flame.

I saw the face of death, today
          in the wrinkles and folds,
          emotions untold,
          and the searing tears, untame.

“Look how I’ve left them,” she said
          all the broken, bold,
          their dreams, sold,
          and a cynical taste of blame.

“Look again,” she said, “for their souls
          I reaped one, foretold,
          snatched a hold,
          and pulled, as if to maim.”

I heard the face of death, today
          conversed with mould,
          her pride, gold,
          as she took the one in frame.

“Turn for the die, now,” she laments
          for the fates controlled,
          hearts consoled,
          and roll your turn, this game.”