Death Be Not Hungry

I am terribly afraid of being devoured.
It happens to the best of us. In one fell bite
of swift draconian jaws. Round a shadow's
curve unseen. Long a bumptious wreckful path,
a hasty trek. Down a lane that forks.

With the suddenness of taking a wrong
turn, a snap decision can lead to folly.
A rushed and rash or passionate move of
risking it all for love or charity. For a wild
impetuous dim-lit addlepated burst of clarity.

(I suppose if heroes paused to think twice,
to have a flicker of sober second-thoughts,
History might be rife with undone noble deeds.
And fools, they are simply bound to scurry in,
out of custom or convention. It's expected.)

Regardless of intentions, whether wise or not,
there are a zillion reasons and ways to wind up
in the mouth of a Lion, between the sizable fangs
and incisors of a Tiger. There are Crocs and Gators
with hulking traps, sawtooth yaps.

Not to mention being gnawed by Anxiety.
Sipped by Mosquitos. Nipped by a circus of Fleas,
a farm of Ants. Nibbled by a list of uncertainties
such as Fear, Doubt, Insecurity. Fed on by
folklore: Vampires, Werewolves, Boogeymen.

The fodder of Goblins, the feast of Trolls.
Baked and gobbled by a Witch once upon a time.
Let's not forget Cannibals. And Zombies
come the Apocalypse. (It is coming you know.)
How about Decay, awaiting us with zeal?

Like the wicked barbed tusks and claws
of Cancer, which bears as many faces as rows
of teeth. Frailties of body and mind; failures of
the Heart, the Liver, the Spleen. Every organ
has its grinder! A banquet for Disease…

There is no blanket of Immunity.

Life's a lottery of chance. A Roulette Wheel
of fate. A roll of the Dice. (I never say Die,
although we cross our tickers and hope to,
requesting a needle stuck in our eye —
but who does that really?

Perhaps in the days of Contagion —
to prove we're alive. An assertion of honor,
the defense of an innocent plea. A mad impulse!)
Getting back to being consumed, a snack
or tidbit, a taste for the Reaper's tongue.

We ask that Death be not hungry,
yet continue to whet his or her appetite.
(It could be a She beneath that cloak —
behind the skull-faced grin. Bones do not
discriminate. Or objectify.)

Unless one's brain is zombified from a virus
or from birth, when finding ourselves in similar
hard places or hot spots, the shoe tends to change
feet — awakening most to the feelings of others,
staring into the same abyss lined with razor cusps.

A black engulfing void of famished covet,
lurid ravenings. It yearns. It craves and culls,
abiding, intensely wroth. Ablaze, combustive,
aching with fiery scorchlight. Ovenous;
a furnace of crimson coals and roiling acids.

To fall in the dark seething pit, the gaping hole,
past rims of serrated rippers, mashers…
be not too eager or delicious. We must celebrate
our time, the hours allotted. That dismal yawn,
that churning chasm can wait, however impatient.

Stop taking Selfies at the edge of a cliff —
in front of a charging Locomotive, Elephant,
herd of Bulls. Refrain from driving a vehicle
under the influence. And dare not champion selfish
concerns at the expense of the vulnerable…

Refusing to help or save the world!

Some are eaten by age and each page of the
Calendar, worn away gradually. Ground and
chewed by woes; a poor diet; toxic surrounds or
people; throes of envy, rage, desperation.
Convinced it's out of control.

Some by their own hand — poisoned through
destructive habits, direct deliberate forms of
harm. And those who make it to the slab intact
may lose precious parts of anatomy or soul
to Harvesters, Morticians, Demons…

Only to feed the figurative Worms in the
end. One or another might get you if the
Creepy Crawlies don't. None of us will
rest in peace… we rest in pieces! And Death
needn't be so hungry. She's overstocked.

It's what happens in Life you should
worry about. Making it last. Making it count.
Making it to the Finish Line — but don't try
to get there first. Don't be in such a hurry!
Remember you aren't alone in this race.

You're in good company.

Lori R. Lopez is a peculiar author, poet, illustrator, and wearer of hats. Verse and stories have appeared in a variety of magazines and anthologies including The Sirens Call, Spectral Realms, Weirdbook, The Horror Zine, Space & Time, HWA Poetry Showcases, JOURN-E, Impspired, Aphelion, Altered Reality, Dead Harvest, and California Screamin' (Foreword Poem). Books include The Dark Mister Snark, Leery Lane, An Ill Wind Blows, The Witchhunt, The Fairy Fly, and Darkverse: The Shadow Hours (nominated for an Elgin Award). Some of Lori's poems have been nominated for Rhysling Awards. You can learn more about her at the website shared with two talented sons: https://www.fairyflyentertainment.com

Find more by Lori R. Lopez in the Author Index.