Mortimer Goth shuffles off this mortal coil in style,
heralded by hula dancers, with an exotic drink from Grimmy.
Deus ex Machina
(for all Sims)
The Grim Reaper
lurks behind your left shoulder, ready to tap
you out of this realm. Who knows
when it will happen? You could be trimming
rose bushes, and suddenly,
he's handing you an after-
life Mai Tai while hula dancers
hip you to paradise. Or perhaps
you'll stand stunned by lightning
and simply combust. Ashes
to ashes. Or dust
to dust: befallen by roaches, spawned from
trash your ex sowed
on your lawn. So many
stupid ways to die: a satellite
falling from the sky, a pool date
gone awry. But let this be
our battle cry. No death
is meaningless. Even when
you burn the salmon, toddle tired
to a garden table to feed
your pregnant maw. No one
sees you going. Weak and alone,
you're spooked by a specter.
Scared to death.
Let's hope your maker
loves you. For if so, as rumors
go, you'll reap a reincarnation.
Brought back, yourself again. (If not,
a zombie life is better than none.)
Maybe, if the gods allow,
you'll simply exit briefly. Rewrite
your life from the point where you
I've been playing the Sims 2 rather obsessively of late, ever since my gamer husband downloaded the free deluxe version of the game, a promotion to interest folks in Sims 4. This poem is inspired both by my experiences and from stories shared on message boards about Sim deaths, which often seem to take both the character and the player by surprise.