Life ends as on a period,
Quick and refined, it cowers, unbalanced, 
a simple black dot on a linear dream, 
a metallic thread, crawling behind
Life’s limelight in shadows, starved
Immobile it moves through night
On wings made of iron, a scythe that rots
Flesh upon penetration, curdling energy
splattering liquid Fate on white faces

It’s master is Creation, allowing its release
Granting its power to transform
Bodies to dust, breath to icy gale, thought to pure ozone
We sit on mountaintops at sunset and watch
The deaths of millions behind that orb of fire
Nonchalantly, assuming our fate is faux pas

Ah, the bridled fortitude of that shy creature there,
livid among the fetid weeds, creaking and crunching
It waits alone, that Death, a ravenous animal
 in a shed wrapped in spring vine
crouched and alone, it waits and seeks

A hollowed disheveled void of nothing
peeks through the prism of Time with
yellow vertigo eyes...

Existence laughs with arrogance
while the fullness of Emptiness retreats
To a mauve corner of mortal mind
A child’s scream it could not resist
nor could life contain Death's eager flee
to break through the skin of reality

There is no promise for perfect escape
Time bleeds hellos into goodbyes
Singing softly to saddened skies
One gone today, another wound agape

Glimmering with sharp teeth,
Ravaging the mind's thick sheath
Death must always insist
 a method of rapture seldom by fist,

Tearing through the body,
the Soul it must rape 

popping its frail shell 
like an impudent grape