If I Were a Poet

Death comes for you,
not the way it used to,
like the lioness stalking her prey,
so silent that even the sky doesn’t notice.
Or like the thief in the night,
a door exploding inward,
a hand grabbing your throat
and throwing you to the floor.

This is 21st century death,
guided by GPS
to the exact center
of your heart,
streamed in real time
for the whole world to watch.

There is no negotiating for time,
no commuting the sentence.
There is no judge or jury,
no father to cry out to.
And even if there were,
he was probably the man
who invented it
or at least paid the ones who did.