Death Made A Poet

It did not come with summer breeze,

But in November where hearts would freeze.

The cradle rocked on borrowed earth,

No laughter marked the hour of birth.

Bruises carved the body and mind,

Loneliness lingered, cruel, unkind.

A first corpse, pale beneath the moon,

Its silent gaze arrived too soon.

Rain became the only kin,

It wept without and wept within.

Death whispers poetry through the night,

Each whispered verse a shard of fright.

Smoke and frost embraced the nave,

A witching line that led to grave.

Pages burned by hands unseen,

The child became a ghost between.

Still it flows, a spell unheard,

A haunting voice, a whispered word.

Alone, reborn, in pain confined,

A soul that death itself designed.