Death, Be Not Proud

A poem I wrote to combat depression and to remember that I control my life.

With His broken and scorched wings he rose,
out of the crater that marked his fall,
His torment engulfed him so, he walked,
Seeking out those whose pain equaled his,
Following those of the wicked call.

As he walked his wings fell to ashes,
That drifted around his naked form,
Cloaking him in desolate darkness,
His pain is the only thing he knows,
The air is hushed, peace before the storm.

A weighted burden on his shoulders,
His practiced hands wield his wicked scythe,
Vain to beg, hopeless to cry for life,
In him is found no pity or grace,
He is the grim reaper of old mythe.

The nightmares of children to come true,
The great merciless angel of death,
Preying on those of weak thoughtless minds,
Drawing them to his broken wings,
Savoring the slowing of their breaths.

But his joy eventually ends,
For his victim always leave,
As he wallows in his suffering,
As he moves to the next Sufferer,
His spells of pain he will weave.

Death be not proud,
For I know the truth of thee,
Keeping to dark corners and shadows,
Wearing a cloak of deepest night,
Hiding thy face so none may see.

Fear not all tortured souls,
For who you would fear,
Is no more then a coward,
Lurking and crawling as a snake,
Listen not to the songs you hear.

Reviews

[.]

For every pain, there remains hope. Hope that brings a lit candle. It may burn far away, but burn it does to guide our way.
This was amazing! I love it!

Ash

[r]

Whoa. I love this. It's dark and sad and amazing. Love it.

[James Johnson]

amazing.... :D