This old, and dear friend, who’s name I can’t place,
Who only appears in times of unrest,
She has a cold voice and a smile-less face
I have the suspicion that I called her “Death.”
The lips of a god, but nicotine teeth
Conversing only of heartbreak and pain
A forked tongue of fierce, and poisonous speech
Regarding all of your grief with disdain.
She walks like sickness to snuff out the light
The dark in her eyes like burning flowers
Her snarl, and words that carry her bite,
Yet I don’t fear her, in all her power.
She is a wave and I’m asking to drown,
O, “Death,” your name makes a beautiful sound.
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