Death sulks the darkness, looking for his next victim, quietly he hunts and keeps his silent tally, words are no longer nessicary.
His goal is clear, chiseled in eternity, he has an order to fill.
God made him an angle of darkness, the bearer of bad news, the toll must be paid, death slips in unobserved, in his robes of black, he waves his hand, he swings his sythe.
A soul rots, trapped within it's vessel, a soul reborn as a child cries for it's first taste of his mother, as a family weeps for another.
Death walks the halls, his heart heavy with sorrow, he knows he can not refuse the call, but he wishes not to answer.
We devise terms to explain it, cancer, aids and heart failure.
But death is the true answer, a plegue of biblical proportions.
Those left behind are forced to question and wonder, ponder where there are no answers, until death comes to collect yet another!
God my have a Devine plan that is laid out in his scriptures that explain the torment of humanity, but we the people locked him into exile and threw away the key.
Turned our backs on his teachings, so death he did create to restore his order, we thought of ourselves as kings, false prophets, until death appeared to claim the first of our people.
We pay the ferryman his due to row us to the farthest shore, as death breathes his icy putrid breath upon the nape of his victims necks, we beg, plead, become angry and make deals but in the end death does not hear, he is blind without eyes so that he can not fall victim to our desperate plight.
A poem by Christopher L. Lisenbee