Death at the Door

Musings on the frailty and beauty of life

 The sound of the knocking at the door,

 makes no distinctions between rich and poor.

The ominous miasma pervading the air,

possesses no compassion, no threshold of care.

These moral lines in which we believe,

fall blind on the eyes of the one who bereaves.

Who's icy, cold fingers gather the souls,

then ferry the restless to the eternal shores.

 

     The engraver of epitaphs and keeper of tolls,

tarries not long, in the task he beholds.

He stays not his hand from the ones who still cling,

to the passions they've chased, and the failures that sting.

How then can we wait, for the things we desire?

this inertia we trust leads our dreams to the fire.

So when his fist meets our door, and introduces sound to the ear,

will you smile with joy, or turn and run in blind fear?

Reviews

[Remember Courage]

Wow this was really good. The beginning really captured the reader and kept them interested! The rhyme makes this poem spooky and mysterious. I really enjoyed the lines
"The sound of the knocking at the door,
makes no distinctions between rich and poor"
that made the poem very nice.
-Courage

[Becky]

So I've been creeping on pretty much all of your writing and this is by far my favorite. It's perfect. Seriously. There's absolutely nothing wrong with it (except for the random indentation, but that doesn't count).

[Morrigan Nicole]

A unique outlook on death indeed, great work.