Death.

Death, be thou proud.
For none stand as mighty nor as dreadful as thee.
I stand quaking at the thought of your taking of me.
Tremble at your cold dark touch.
I’m not ready.
Not yet.
I don’t want you to take me.
I want to soar among the stars.
I want to leave a mark that places me into history.
I want to scorn you as quickly as embrace you.
I want to fall in love.
I want to bond myself to justice.
Then.
Then, I’ll go to our rendezvous.
I’ll take your hand, and you can lead me quietly down into the crypt.
I will honour those ancestors who passed before me.
I will sing for them.
Dance for them.
Write for them.
Create for them.
And I will close my eyes.
And then I shall sleep.
But I don’t want to go yet, death.
So stay away, death.
Thou might be powerful.
And thou might be transcendent.
But.
I’m not ready yet.
I’m not ready.
Not Ready.
Ready.