Death

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  • Death

    Death
    The end is near
    So close at hand
    I look death in the eye
    Not afraid of fear

    I have no place
    Among the sane
    So with my eyes low
    I step aside

    The fog settles
    Upon my head
    The keeper of souls
    Takes me across

    Fire and brimstone
    Boil high
    Reeking havoc
    Upon my soul

    The end is near
    So close at hand
    I reach out to
    death's embrace

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    To have great poets there must be great audiences too.

    Walt Whitman, American Poet (1819-1892)

    StormWolf’s Poems (7)

    Title Comments Submitted
    Title Comments Submitted
    Barbed covered heart 1 02/27/2009
    Visiting Gramma 0 02/27/2009
    Death 0 02/27/2009
    Touch 0 02/27/2009
    Love Sees 0 02/27/2009
    Thinking of you 0 02/27/2009
    Another Day in Hell 0 02/27/2009
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