PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

What can I do when death stalks my fragile from, stretching its cold spectral hands for me, steering me toward the valley of death.
Who will pray for me now?
Blood pours out of my being like lava from a volcano.
Death silently stands waiting to collect.

Where is my angel with rag in hand to forgive me for what i am.
Is this a dream?
Maybe my eyes are closed.
Then reality soon unfolds.
Death is the only thing I have left.
I have no place to hide.

Death gazes longingly into my eyes.
I look behind him but still no angel in in sight.
Should I go on fighting a fight I cannot win,
or should I take the angel of death by the hand?
I have decided to fight.
I draw my sword and shoot my arms toward the stars, bringing the sword down across death's skeletal hand.
It falls to the ground and I can see the light fog from my breath in the air. The grim reaper soon disappears.
I wake up, still feeling the cold metal surgery table on my back and what seems to be the smell of a corpse lingering near.