In shadows cast across the night so bleak,
Death's icy hand, an all-consuming tide,
A silent reaper, death's garment in its keep,
Unseen but felt, in our hearts, it does reside.
Yet in its grasp, our souls
On the pages of eternity's scroll,
Though mortal bodies may crumble and fade,
Our words immortal, forever they'll stroll,
Through the annals of time, a serenade.
For death cannot claim the tales we have made.
In every verse, a piece of our souls remain,
Ink stained emotions, stories yet untold,
The words we leave behind, a lasting stain,
A legacy, as death's grip tries to hold,
But our stories, they cannot be controlled.
For even as death looms near with its might,
Our words become a shield against its blow,
Through poetry and prose, we continue the fight,
Defying death's call, our stories will show,
That even in death, our spirits will glow.
So fear not the whispers of death's cold breath,
For through the power of words we shall endure,
Our stories, like whispers from the abyss, shall bequeath,
A legacy that death cannot obscure,
Forever writing, even after death's allure.
In shadows cast across the night so deep,
Death dances on the edge of our sight,
Yet our words, like echoes, will forever weep,
A testament to life's eternal light,
In death's embrace, our stories take flight.
