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I dreamed of death, as he came to me. He gazed into my eyes as a lost lover. Perhaps I knew him in a past life I thought. His looks wore unnatural, he was all pale white bone.
A soft kiss upon your loving lips, When you need a helping hand; Just whisper my name, and I'll be there, Your wish is my command.
Flying high. Shallow breath. Lightheaded thoughts. Whimsical Death. Like a dream. No trouble, no rush. No anything, really. Quiet now, hush. Let him take you away. On his grand onyx steed.
This poem was partially inspired by a book I read about 5 years ago called "The Book Thief". Written by Marcus Zusak, Death is a narrator.
A gaunt ivory face flashes under a thick onyx black hood. Raven fabric cascades in ripples like crystal water. Lifeless obsidian eyes pierce the swirling argent mist.
Onyx tears flow from my eyes. Deaths younger sister. In a beautiful disguise. Dyed black is my heart. Once as cold as this stone. Turn you to memories dust. From skin and bone. No longer can I bear.
No eyes in their sockets, Blind of the portraits beauty, Held in a heart shaped locket. Immortal & cold. Choosing whose cards will fold.
The veil of a hidden unknown figure. Black, dark as night, wicked & ready to bite. Crushing your heart. Crumbling life's, throwing the darts. Reaping constantly, as another life starts.
An old one I'm digging up for #household I look in the mirror. I see no reflection. No skull-head, no sickle, nothing looks back.
So I'm the creature of the dark The one that you call death I sneak up in the dead of night And steal your final breath In Ancient China long ago I went to do the same The Emperor lay in his bed I...
There is a fella called Fred He has a big round head He wears a red flower See him and cower For it'll only mean that you're dead He came for the girl with red hair Fred calmly led her to where The...
I look in the mirror. I see no reflection. No skull-head, no sickle, nothing looks back. The man I remember From yesteryear's picture Is lost in translation, needle in stack.