The Final Act

Come to me with empty eyes and Lipless snarl.
Howl like the banshee winds from the darkest vale.
Hiss with frightful, incandescent rage, my name.
Promise the dark and lonely grave awaiting.
Show me my rotting flesh and crumbling bones,
that will soon become less than a memory.

And I will snort gleefully, as would a child and
reaching out my hands, go with you willingly.
Be not disappointed, poor death, that I
should mock your entrance – my exit,
as I follow you, easily, into the darkness.
I knew, someday I must share your stage
but determined, that before the lights dimmed
and the curtain came down on this production,
the script for the final act, would be mine.

Chris Birrane © 2012