SHADOW OF MY DEATH

SHADOW OF MY DEATH

The shadow of my death it lingers, reaching out its shriveled fingers,
Ghastly in the blind inferno, reckless but right on point.

Like a desperate madman on the loose, casing out this run down joint,
Reaching out its rigor mortised arm to check the pulse of this humble abode
And calling the doctors and blue-ing the code,
To say that at last there is no one at home.

The shadow of my death if follows, through the canyons and the hollows.
Everywhere I walk I see its grisly yellowed jaundiced face,
My peaceful final resting place.

The shadow of death, it cares not for words,
Words like not yet or I need more time.
A brutal test proctor with stopwatch in hand
From classroom to classroom he stalks this great land,
Oblivious to our whining pleas.

He has his own unchanging dreams,
That mortal man is far too stupid to comprehend.
Into the background like a phantom, the shadow of death descends.

And the shadow of my death, it kicks my sorry ass,
Deep and hard as a soccer ball on artificial grass.
And I’m left tumbling like a meteorite, back to the dust from which I came.
As the shadow of my death leans closer, snuffing out the flame,
Leaning in like some backstabbing friend, whispering my name.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED