Death Has a Heart

She rolls into my arms with a soul so bright,
I have to shut my eyes
And so quiet,
I have to lean in to listen.
My ears do not strain too hard, however;
I know what words they will soon capture,
I know how my cold mouth will move to answer.

I wait for the luminescent shape to quiver, to coil, to shiver
with its question: what happens next?
Yet the soul remains still.
And when its voice rings out,
so extraordinary, with such a melody,
I am finally introduced to my own fear.

Her musical lips form the most astonishing pattern of words:
What do you remember?

I am soundless, motionless,
because I could share it with her, she could see what I have seen--
how the sparkle is stolen from someone's eyes,
replaced by agony, loss, regret,
while that sparkle remains in another's tears.
Instead I push her away, watch her roll out of the murk,
for I do not believe such a question deserves to be held
in the arms of Death.

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