Madness & Death

Tick—

tock—

the clock coughs up feathers.

Time bleeds backward,

dripping from the Reaper’s sleeve.

He comes in straight lines,

a neat procession of silence.

I answer with spirals,

laughter folded like origami knives.

Crows whisper inside their cages,

“Choose, choose, choose—”

but I never choose.

I unchoose.

I undo.

Cards catch fire in my hands,

spades melt into smoke,

hearts beat until they burst.

I toss the ashes into his hood.

He smells like grave dirt and promises.

“Am I yours?” I curtsy,

skirts torn, crown tilted,

a Queen of Nothing.

He nods—

certain.

Always certain.

So I kiss him.

On the mouth,

on the scythe,

on the hollow where his eyes should be.

And for once,

Death forgets his step.

The waltz collapses into madness,

and I—

I am free.