The Death of Death
Black cloak billowing in the wind,
Boned feet clicking rapidly against the stone,
The being of neither good,
Flees across the land.
Flies five rabid beasts of fear,
Each foaming white at the mouth,
Howling curses against his soul.
The rocky terrain changes,
The ground turns soft and warm,
The pursuit hastens,
The fugitive gasping for air
Refuses to halt.
He gazes about
Yearning for the sight
Of the place of his destiny
Where fate lies in wait.
In the distant sun
Across miles of ashen sand
A green emerald glimmers in the muck
The victim of seething hate smiles.
He swings his polished scythe
Out from underneath his ebony covering .
The demons of naivety close the distance.
This chase of misunderstanding,
Of clouded visages
And closed minds and hearts,
The six figures flying through the air,
Never touching the desert below.
At long last,
When the moon is high
Illuminating the land in pale yellow,
An oasis of green sprouts from the barren sand.
Death halts in the meadow,
Turning his body to face the beasts.
His billowing cloak begins to morph,
As the personification of fear
Takes on every hue
And idea of the mask of death.
He is a skeleton,
A decrepit man,
The angel of black and crimson,
He is everything and nothing at once.
In the same way,
The beasts of pursuit undertake
Their four legs fuse into two,
The mahogany fur covering
Softens to calloused flesh.
Their faces twist and scrunch
From the canine mask of hatred
To the feline features of humans.
Thus they stand,
Death in all his visages,
Our fearful hatred
Naked and glistening.
Two step forward,
A demon of red
An angel of pearly white,
Both hold daggers in hand,
Their faces stretched with smiles,
Shadowing the laughter of the other three wraiths.
Good and evil joined hands,
Stepping forward to vanquish the foe.
The only being of neutrality,
Caring neither for good nor ill,
Took his glistening scythe in hand,
Its curved blade cradled his throat.
A steady stream of crimson
Dyed the grass with blood.
The victim of our fear,
Fell to the ground below,
Laughing as he went,
Asking the wraiths of woe
If their would be a death awaiting his soul.
It was there they left him,
-In the meadow surrounded by desert-
Death, our friend our foe,
Dead as dead can be.
A/N: just wanted to thank all who read and reviewed the first poem. Honestly I like that one more so you can say that too. But I wrote this one from an idea given by Thornwitch. So again thanks to all of my reviewers (Princess Claire, Alan Deseras, Jenis, Saiya-jinmira, Persn A, J.T. Phlaan, Thornwitch, Softly Jae, Winged One1, and MelodyReiterLee.) Hope you all like this poem too.