Death stays close.
He has always walked
in my frozen shadows,
he has talked,
whispers of ancients,
at my barred, bolted windows.
He always stays
within scythes reach.
Mountain, valley or beach.
Death has been there
through thick and thin.
That feint distant bells ring.
Restless bony hand
on the hourglass,
tapping a rhythm
with crooked claw.
Letting me know that more
fidgety seconds are passing.
He stays within scythes reach.
City, lake or countryside retreat.
Death flits in the distance,
flirts with the air,
letting me know he is there.
Dead flowers no longer grow
nor follow the aching paths
where stagnant rivers
once flowed,
and tomorrow
becomes yesterday
once more.
He stays within scythes reach.
Not to torture or scare, but to teach.
To let me know not to sit and wait
in my own skeletal shadow for too long.
For if I do maybe it will all be too late
when I finally press play on the song.
Thanks for reading
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