Mar 21
Waiting for Death,
For someone else's reaper.
Mr. Death came for them,
In a sharp suit,
Unafraid of getting soiled,
By blood of the battlefield,
Nor of waste and rubbish.
Not of old flaking skin,
Or tears of youthful.
He takes their hand,
A comforting embrace.
His cane clacks in the hallway,
Away they stride,
Casting the likes of me aside.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry For The Lost People
Poetry365 observations and comments about society, life and love throughout 2022. Come with me on my journey day by day, as I write what I've always wanted to say. There is no method or planning, just thoughts and perceptions about the way of the world. A...
