And lo, many a time death has called my name
But I’ve run from her haunting mournful call
Howling on raw wind, from the shallow grave
Wailing in harsh winter’s stagnant pall
Her face in shadows, wearing a gossamer caul
Begging to caress with bony white fingers
While fierce black hellhounds strain to maul
As a cloying odor of decay lingers
Carrying the stench of decomposed demise
Someday Hel will return, chortling with glee
No longer wearing pale death’s disguise
But rather, my own face peering at me.
dVerse Poets Pub: Poetics You Want it Darker
