Death Dwells in my Subconscious...

…as a figure in a dark coat with one of those old-timey fedoras pulled down too low over his forehead. He’s tolerable enough, most of the time, only recently he’s been getting a little too much into poetics. Don’t you think it’s a little heavy-handed? he’s asking me. What? I’m pissed because I’m trying to sleep, and he only ever seems to want to make himself known when I’m trying to sleep. I don’t know, this whole thing—he gestures vaguely to himself, gaunt, cold, the coat more cloak-like than appropriate for street wear, with a long, gleaming scythe in his right hand and an ominous scroll in his left. He waves the scroll a little—I can’t even read this shit— and the scythe—and this looks like you picked it up in a pop-up Halloween store in the corner of the downtown mall—and he shakes his head like he’s trying to dislodge the ill-fitting fedora, but of course it doesn’t budge. What do you want from me? I ask. I didn’t do any of that. He squints at me in response. You must have. You’re the poet. He begins to look around him, taking in his surroundings with distaste visible in his expression. What is this, prose? I fail to stifle my scream of frustration. Come on, he grins, you know you love me. I hate it when he flirts.