death lacks the promise of live births
death isn’t some grand doorway,
no velvet curtain pulled back
to reveal a fresh, pink-fisted miracle
screaming its way into being.
no—
death is the bar at 2 a.m.,
the bartender wiping the same glass
for the hundredth time,
waiting for you to realize
there’s nothing left to drink
and nowhere left to go.
people talk like it’s a rebirth,
a clean slate, a cosmic joke—
but I’ve seen too many bodies cooling
and too many hearts going quiet
to believe in any of that.
life bursts in like a drunk lover,
slaps you awake,
hands you a good cigarette,
tells you to run or stay
but at least keep breathing.
death is quieter,
a landlord who finally changes the locks.
no warmth.
no promise.
no infant light crawling through the blinds.
just the slow extinguishing
of the last good flame
you managed to keep alive
in this busted, beautiful world.
and maybe that’s enough—
that we burned at all,
that we kicked and cursed
and came into this place screaming,
because death,
for all its cold discipline,
has never known
the wild, impossible promise
of a single live birth.
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