The Image of Mortality

DEATH rises, yawns,

Shakes His curly locks

Of revenge, lust, spite,

And other vile things

That drive Him-

To what we suppose

Is pure madness.

While passing a mirror,

He glances at His reflection,

And smiling, shows

His stained and ancient teeth;

Yellow with sickness and heartache.

DEATH nods at death

And with that, is off.

The cool air stings His eyes,

And the blue pools cloud with tears.

He blinks and inhales,

What is to Him-

The stale stench of life.

He walks clumsily,

Black boots echoing in the night.

On some random corner, He stops,

Senses alert, searching.

He appears before a bed,

Tall, looming, formidable.

He leans down to kiss away her mortality.

But a hand grips His wrist,

And in a hoarse whisper declares,

“No, Death. Not tonight.”