If you plant death on torn pockets of  poems then it will take multiple births that even in a summer noon your throat will catch cold and your eyes will shiver.
It will clear cache in your system without much noise- that is in silence, so that people around you won't notice how empty you are inside.
If you put death in the buttonholes of your sadness, it's teeth will break your bone marrow in such a way that people will ask you where your back bone is.
It will turn to an unnamed virus chewing the  holiness of your mother's religion and make it call you a coward.
If you take death in your glass hands, it will act like a one week old stray cat, all cuddly and sweet only to keep your regrets alive in name of a kiss.
It will pour salt on your floors to remind you what a touch can be a knife in case a wound.
If you carry death aggressively in your womb, then it will spread ot roots over your veins, making it difficult for you to take abortion pills even though you know its the only way.
It will turn into a dialect without name inside you, impatient and struggling to get out, against the shore of lover's names.
If you listen carefully  you will hear death chirping like a cartoon bird, it's gasp ruined but elegant like the song the song of Adam when he was fallen out of the Eden.
It will cut off your tongue with feverish dreams bleached out of colours you wanted to add and pity you for being the gloomy season.
If you haven't removed your hands till now, then death will hold then with gentle care you always wished for and will teach you how to make a fist to bust your own face open.
It will deny you ice bags and call the sensation "holy ", an orchestral master piece.
If you are ready to displace your brain, then death will teach you the magic of having the habit of  disappearing, within an interval of changing light bulbs.
It will tell you how to trace god in yourself without being afraid of some other entity's wrath.
Hold on, he is the god.

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