THE POEM THAT OUTLIVED ME

THE POEM THAT OUTLIVED ME

Death waits quietly

in the back room,

watching me write

as if I owe it.

My pen trembles

in a cold grip,

shaping lines that feel

too close to endings.

I breathe slowly

as ink gathers,

each word leaning

toward a darker truth.

Shadows settle near,

touching my hands,

asking gently

what I fear most.

I write anyway,

because silence hurts,

and poems become

the only pulse I know.

Death reads over me,

patient and calm,

turning each stanza

into something heavier.

My voice deepens,

falling into corners,

where lost things sleep

and wait to be named.

I feel the weight

of every memory,

pressing lightly

against my chest.

Still I keep writing,

because poems remember

what humans forget,

even the painful things.

Death steps closer,

not unkindly,

studying each line

as if learning me.

I finish slowly,

ink fading thin,

knowing the poem

will stay long after.

It stands quietly,

a dark reflection,

a small creation

that outlives its maker.

And somewhere behind me,

death nods once,

as if understanding

what I tried to say.