Death Talked to Mr. Ackinsaw

Blood poured on top of empty sweat, dripping.
Man covered in dirty blankets, eyes listening.
Don't know why he hugged the blanket, gripping.
I saw the concerned dark shadow, blankly staring.
Wish I didn't have to see this--trouble forgetting.
Odor of spoiled wild flowers scattered, unsettling.
Their eyes meet, flutter, dart away, threatening.
Mr. Ackinsaw's chest opens as he watches, trembling.
The creature extends a firm hand, welcoming.
Memory of last year's 4th of July flood in, startling.
Vivid images of an open grill with flames, glowing.
The patient opens his mouth, aghast, barely breathing.
Children dance around the bedside, laughing.
A warm breeze peels away the white walls, cleaning.
Sunlight lights up Ackinsaw's wisps of hair, blessing.
A bold sparrow coasts through the air, dancing.
"Away," says that black one--angrily swiping.
"Redemption?" asks Ackinsaw, hesitantly nodding.
"What is surface is only dust", shadow says, unmoving.
In the old man's hand he grasps a butterfly, loving.
Pats he the head of his oldest child, reliving.
Anger pours inside his chest, reviving.
Wrinkles tighten, fists ball up, combating.
"I never sold my self out", declaring.
Pleasantly smiles death, patronizingly stating--
"Neither does anyone own you"--overpowering
His empty sayings of a better life, dying.
So I leave the room, and make sure to close the door--
unbearable weeping.
"... although he dies, yet shall he live."