Live Fast, Die.

I took a gamble and rolled the dice.

Death came to collect – not like a thief in the night,

but a welcomed friend.

I bargained for my fifteen minutes of fame.

While he reluctantly agreed, he never stopped following me.

Death was the fifth member of the band – for years he rode shotgun in the van.

Death, too, kissed every bottle-blonde stranger with harlot-red lipstick.

Death injected every needle with me, curled up against me in the bottom of every bottle.

Death swayed in the corner of every bar,

watching and waiting, until he could wait no longer.

Finally, he stole me away just before last call.

He carried me to his black, roaring hearse and wove through the city streets.

I watched the lights bleed together as they ran past me

and shielded myself from the bitter cold November air.

I began to close my eyes as he drove toward eternity.

You can sleep when you’re dead.

***This poem is a modern version of Emily Dickinson's "Because I Could Not Stop for Death" about a rock star whose lifestyle catches up with him.