Not Yet

I will not die by fate divine,
no poet’s end, no grand design.
No final act, no curtain call—
just something dumb. Just watch me fall.

A stubbed toe swells, a purple bloom,
infection spreads, I meet my doom.
Or maybe just a single sneeze—
a spinal snap, I crumple, pleased.

A cat once clawed me, deep and raw,
its rusted nails defied all law.
An ant once bit—one tiny prick—
and down I fell, a melting wick.

The Reaper watched and said "not yet'.

But I lived. Again, again—
like fate mistook the how and when.
A shotgun kissed my waiting head,
but left me standing, dazed instead.

And the Reaper said "not yet".

The ocean flipped my kayak twice,
I sipped the void, I paid the price.
But strangers breathed me back to shore,
then vanished. (Never seen before.)

And the Reaper said "not yet".

An elevator groaned and snapped,
nine stories down, its guests entrapped.
But I had left—just one floor high.
The next man in? He learned to fly.

And the Reaper said "not yet".

A car ride—wrong door, twist of fate.
A friend said, "No, the —other mate."
I stepped away, just one foot wide—
the others took a different ride.

The Reaper whispered " next time..".

A mild dispute with dynamite,
which shook the ground, erased the night.
The trees dissolved, the dust turned red—
but I remained, still not quite dead.

And the Reaper murmured "not yet".

A doctor frowned, "Your gut’s decayed,
your brain’s a wreck, your odds mislaid."
Yet there I sat, "Well, what’s the deal?"
He skimmed his notes—"You shouldn’t heal."

And the Reaper shrugged "not yet I guess".

So here I am—against all odds,
a glitch, a joke, a fraud to gods.
In some dark worlds, I bit the dust,
but here I linger—live I must.

And when I go, it won’t be grand,
no poet’s pen, no sculptor’s hand.
Just gasps of "Wait—that? No way, no!"
A death too dumb to undergo.

A toe, a trip, a swollen hue,
infection spreads, I turn to glue.
And as the Reaper comes, you'll hear me crow:
"See, I told you so."