For death wants to bleed into fame.
Maybe you’ll find the rightful name
When death finishes inking its aim.
“I’m the arrogant thief of joy,” it says,
“The one who traces their doorsteps.”
They say I disrupt destiny’s own way,
Standing by the road, counting footsteps.
They spit in my face and curse me;
Some wet their tears with the ghost of me.
They speak of my jars of endless tyranny
And weep at my presence due to hierarchy.
But I weep for them as I watch them bloom.
I call to the man who set the laws of the room.
I wish I never acted in this play or saw this day.
I’ll wait to be swallowed up forever, like they say.
I hope for the day this play will go to bed.
The rightful name? Death at the dead end.
I guess it isn’t my fault; I smile and laugh,
Since you’ll keep leaving flowers on epitaphs.
