Out in the cold rain,
lying broken on the side of the road,
Death defeats her.
In a hostile desert, mid-war,
with glory in his eyes, and blood on his hands,
Death defeats him.
In a lonely nursing home bed,
abandoned and unfed,
Death defeats her.
On a suburban railroad track,
a loud horn blows, and his sadness sits down,
Death defeats him.
In the womb of life,
nutrients abrupted from a fall,
Death defeats it.
On a busy city street,
in the scope of a sniper's silenced rifle,
Death defeats you.
On the dirty floor, face down,
with a rusted, deep-seated knife in my back,
Death defeats me.
Death defeats us all.
--Kristi Miles (June 2005)