Death has been behaving strangely lately,
Almost as if it doesn’t like writing
Stories about characters anymore,
Which means it has no means to finish them.
I may regret this tendency, Death says,
And yet, no longer can I deny it.
(Death likes to talk like that, in a fusty,
Old-fashioned lingo that never did live,
Except when Death has to sound plausible.
Death has wearied of sounding plausible,
Part of the problem now for Death’s stories,
Since Death is back to talking like the dead.)
But a death that isn’t claiming the souls
And traits of living beings isn’t Death.
The faceless nods slowly. When least I am
As I wish to be, then most am I me.