The Walk

A poem about walking with death

I sit here alone, all in dismay,
Sitting here surrounded by the smell of death and decay.
There's a slight breeze blowing,
But not a sound...As I sit by this grave,
With no one around.


The silence is maddening, but still I am sound,
For there by the gravestone , a cloaked figure is found.

He's perched upon the tombstone, with a sickle in hand,
His voice whispers, beckoning me to Summerland.

As he leaves, I follow,Taking his hand...Hearing the call I follow into the Summerland.

I feel the pull, from this life to the next,
Walking, and wondering who has placed upon me this hex,
This curse, whatever it be; then the figure whispers...
Oh Gods! I realize the cloaked figure is me.

Reviews

[LuciersHeir]

well ty for your critique, I , have a lot of poetry that seems morbid or psychotic, but it really isn't.
You kind of have to read between the lines in order to catch my meaning sometimes.

Blessed Be!

Tim

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ummm... ok good detail i can tell you that and that i like it!