Death's call drifts in through my door
around the same time every night.
It's not beckoning nor coaxing,
nor is appealing or welcoming.
It's like listening to a song
you used to put on repeat,
yet now no longer like.
It's not a sweet nostalgia, it's
more of a mocking, regretful,
even taunting noise.
No one knows but I
the past thoughts between Death's call and I,
but I'm quite sure that
anyone who sees my face when
its call rumbles and whistles through the night
knows that I once wished I was there
in front of Death
and am glad that it's moved on
to its next stop.