Your death is a spoiler,
heard and forgotten,
gathering dust
at the back
of the clubs you frequent,
things you “actually meant”,
and left to
go rotten.

Your life is a Walter
White,
rattled by tension,
just out of sight,
glimmers of evening that reflect the night,
and too short to mention.

What lies in
between is a whisper,
early to bed,
still a good listener.

What lies at the end
is a die,
always a number,
roll for
how high.