Beseeching

one cannot command Death,
he who turns his sallow face away
eyes as jet, smoother than ocean stones
reflecting nothing, all commandments his own
failing mortals falling at his feet;
all cries of anguish rolling unheard into his deaf ears
and swallowed whole by the night
you cannot command Death.
at midnight or at three A.M.,
whenever it is that grief lets itself flourish
growing wild and diseased like black flowers
in some waking nightmare.

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