Death

Death is round.

She can go in many ways,

but she has not a sound.

Night and darkened days,

her wrath has come unbound.

She snuggles us tight

but will loosen her grip

when we no longer fight.

Flowing energy from the tip,

harsh hands not so quite.

Death is our balance,

But yea beware.

She'll not tolerate any malice.

Death wont take you anywhere.

hatred must be cowardice.

Reviews

[RaccoonFox]

I really enjoyed this poem..