Grimreaper

No prayer escapes these fractured lips,

No light remains, the darkness grips.

My wings lie torn in ashen flame,

A nameless wretch without a name.

The moon, pale mistress, veils her eyes,

She shuns the thing that never dies.

Her silver bleeds through choking mist,

And burns the skin her light has kissed.

I do not dread the tomb’s cold keep,

For I already walk in sleep.

The true despair is waking still,

With hollow heart and iron will.

When the clock strikes thrice, the veil will tear,

And Grimreaper breathes in the poisoned air.

No tender song, no gentle hand,

Just echoes where the lost ones stand.

I was not made for mortal breath,

But for the frost that follows death.

My lips are cracked, they thirst, they crave,

For all that rots beneath the grave.

As sands slip slow from hourglass,

And old clocks toll the dead man’s pass,

The air grows thick, my chest turns cold,

A shiver crawls through marrow old.

The earth exhales its bitter breath,

I sink beneath the frost of death.

My veins run ice, my lips go pale,

A final whisper, a hollow wail....

Reviews

[emmajoygreen]

A tragic tale set with care and fine meter, my friend. But what a tragedy - what a tale told line by line that could strangle thought and life's once considered intention.

'The air grows thick, my chest turns cold,
A shiver crawls through marrow old.
The earth exhales its bitter breath,
I sink beneath the frost of death.'

Those four lines say more than more. Superb poetising.

* Worried by nothing more from you. Truly hope life is being kind to you, Milena? *