Mistress Pain

the clock ticks on, immensely slow
grey fog engulfs life’s muddy thoughts
a wall of rain obscures the world
no trace of sound can be heard
you’re suffocating, no air left
you choke and squirm and think of Death –
how often do you think of Death?
how often?
once, twice a day – is this the norm?
or is it just how you were born,
trapped in an open coffin?
that’s when you grasp the simple truth
that Death won’t ever come for you
he’s stalling, busy –
instead, guess what? – your oldest friend
returns to haunt you once again
she’s here now,
her strokes dizzying
the wind grows wild, intones her name
the ever present
Mistress Pain