Drunken Moon

I hear Death treading closer

blasphemy of white herons

stabbing of piercing icicles

weighing me down.

I fall on my knees

dying a little every day

under the drunken moon.

Death has no face,

reflections

in my broken mirror.

Whistling, he waits

to inhale the spirit

of who I am.

I grasp my thoughts,

ricocheting in my corner.

Diabolically he walks

through windblown chasm.

Embryonic, I curl

tormented by his steps

pounding subconscious

can’t grasp reality.

I crawl toward

the brilliant light,

lost and frozen,

awareness dawning

that Death

is an impersonator.

I will not embrace

eternity today.