IT SEEMS DEATH HAS BETTER PLANS
Not everything turned out the way I thought.Writing no longer heals,
love no longer keeps me warm,
not even a pouch of tobacco
smells the way it used to.
Only pain is faithful,
and sorrow she always knows where I live.
I had planned to leave quietly,
somewhere between two poems,
to be found with a smile
and a blank sheet of paper beside my head.
But it seems death has better plans.
She avoids me
like a mother avoids a torn fetus after a miscarriage,
like an old love on the street,
like a father who never came back.
Perhaps she is saving me for something worse
a nursing home,
a corridor without windows,
or that room where you no longer know your own name
and everyone calls you dear.
Sometimes I think she loves me.
She plays.
From time to time she rewards me
with a migraine,
with disappointment,
or with a friend who disappears
when all that is needed is silence.
I live, but not because I want to.
I live because death is late,
because her train never arrives,
or perhaps she simply
changed her mind.
You know how it is
illness, whores, and death.
All of them,
when they promise to come,
always seem to have better plans.
Poetry by Maria Deyana
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Editors' choiceWritten on 2026-06-15 at 21:08
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