the dance

In a whisper resembling
agonizing torture of nameless multitudes
my name was called, lulling me from sleep.
Over my bed stood the Angel of Death
a bony hand reaching out,
as if in threat.
I laughed sadly.
“Oh Death, your devices don’t intimidate me!”
I cried hot tears.
“What torture do you bring
that her departure has not?
This life is a curse far more
than a walk with you."

So I fingered Death’s phalanges,
spinning him round, making him dance with me;
yet, before the waltz ended Death vanished.

What is my worth now,
when not even Death desires me?