A Smile of Death
by Michael Doyle

The morning comes with a "how have you been"
That comes a bit too brightly in world gone dim
A smile unwelcomed can being its sense of dread
With the ominous thought that we'll all soon be dead

The anxiety breaks creeping across our soul
Until the wine can't help keep perspective in control
Uncertain about that it is that we have let in
The look behind us edges us away from our Zen

No scream can make the dread fade and disappear
When the reaper has decided to finally appear
Along comes its side of death creeping through the woods
The post-traumatic echoes that are finally understood

Each birthday bring us all the closer to the breath
That announces the final moment of our death
Tell me then, what is the pain that you believe you feel
That keeps us separated from delusion and what's real

There is an edge that comes with creativity
A ledge to be walked off into lasting depravity
Too much tiredness can make a soul weary
When the the confines of a heart has grown dreary

There's a generalized anxiety that we will all die
Yet, no one really knows the when or the ultimate why
Still, it's a fear beyond our worst sort of nightmare
Manically squeezing in a feeling that's there

Slow pan from the cinema's scene to morbid scene
Each dramatic pause makes us wonder what it means
Therapy won't help to explain; nor will rationalization
Clinging to the side of the walls defying analyzation 

Masked faces seen in sequences of repeated hallucination
Scary smiles that inform in their ghastly explanation
It's a scream of a dream that tells us that we all will die
And not even a single soul can really explain the why

A slice of the throat with jagged glass leads to the bleed out
As the psychiatrist stands startled, strangled in her doubt
The ghoul smiles a smile that makes it want to go away
There are the fears that remain etched from that faithful day

Evil haunts us one-by-one, surprisingly quietly
Visiting us all at the odd moments; sometimes nightly
We cannot truly wish away the flood of pouring blood
Because as it washes across our world, it becomes the binding mud

Chasing cycles that never really make any sense but their own
Like the unwritten rules that are carved on our horror's stone
At the end the director's verdict captures the last hour
And with a smile of terror, we allow Hollywood this power

(c) July 8, 2023   Michael Doyle
All Rights Reserved