My Creater

In an instant it is done:
be it murder, suicide or a road kill.
Some deaths linger on though;
and there is more to them than the final event.

This death that you have written for me
Is it a little like that?

Why am I not allowed a lone tick of quiet?
a secret nook to mourn my loss?
a passion to claim my propensity to life?
Why am I not allowed to ask you why?

This death that you have written for me
Why doesn’t it kill?