he's late.

he's late.

he's always late.

waiting for half a century

for him to come find me

hide and seek in a gloomy world

hiding until I stumbled upon a girl

grunge goth, hair a wild mess

the eye of ra drawn by eyeliner

on her right eye;

she greeted me with a smile.

she asked me what I was doing

was I coming, or going

I said neither; I was waiting

all the while she was smiling

she asked me to sit with her then

as she took out a sketch pad and a pen

and started drawing the swallows

nesting in the building hollows

who are you waiting for, she asked

a stranger who's s'pposed to be a friend, 

I answered back, rather shyly 

she giggled; was I that funny? 

we talked about life and un-life

from dusk until early morning light

then she stood up and offered a hand, 

It's time t go, Ann. 

it was then that I realized

Death was not a man. 

I've been waiting for a girl with an ankh

on her neck. it took me by surprise. 

she's never late. 

she comes on time. always.

only the time is not of our choosing