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A night as dark as the petals of a black rose

Wind like ice

All that can be heard is the scurring feet of rats and mice

This night seems more dead than those in buried in a graveyard





Twice as cold

And twice as dark

As the witching hour draws ever nearer

Those close to us seem dearer





Tonight our lives could come to a close

As the sickle of death draws ever clearer

Our minds become tiny jails for our lives

We hide inside ourselves hoping that death will pass us by





As death steals by the door

It seems that hope is gone forever more

But as quickly and quietly as it came

It is gone from our sight but never again from our minds

COMMENTS

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DeirdreL
04:55 Jan 19 2010

wow... i love this poem Miss! this is a great way to picture death and not to mention a great description of how one goes about it a lot of the time.

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