he was a tree, struck by lightning.
[tall, thin,
blackened]
but his skin was metallic silver
and his hair hung in long tresses
which shone like coal, in its earthy
way.
he had a crown of metal
[tarnished
silver, like his skin]
except it always shone, even in pitch
black dark.
onyx stones smoothed out its sharpness
and he was cloaked in the nothing
that could only be the penumbra of
shadows.
and yet his eyes, I think about most.
[they are
hardest to remember]
for they were like black beetles in his
thin face
which were somehow dark enough
to steal all the light that shone
towards them
yet give off the tiniest glint in
return.
death came to me in a dream, once.
but he didn't come for me, that time.
[not for anyone,
in fact]
instead, he came to assist me
in my forgotten dream situation
where the only way to fix the broken
pieces
was to slide back to before they broke
at all.
death shared his secret with me
[and wouldn't he
have many of those?]
he showed that he was not only the one
who took those who passed their time
but also the one who showed them the
path
into the new light of life and rebirth.
I asked him politely for his help
[his smile was
kind yet weary]
and as he spun his hands, his skin shone
gold.
in his hair grew dainty yellow flowers
and when he held open his cloak of
shadows
I embraced him as an old friend.
life came to me in a dream, once.
