I have made sense of the calls
from Death at midnight,
My hands no longer shake
as I answer.
We sing poetry across the globe
and wait for the sun to rise,
because both of us know how it feels to be feared.
As we talk through the night
the scars on my thighs burn like coals,
reminding me of how close I was
to joining my late night lover,
but then who would answer his calls?
My voice no longer shakes
as if I had swallowed 3 pots of coffee,
and my eyes are not drifting to sleep.
Too many words have been forced from my mouth,
to care what is coming out.
Death is my lonely friend,
as melancholy as me.
I've made sense of the calls
from death at midnight,
He is just a persona
of my broken dreams.
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