Black Fingered Pond
Again, death swirls its black finger
around the aura of pristine ponds.
Sprouting the stoutest weeds.
Amidst sleepy lilies and emerald songs
Which used to breathe freely.
Where souls once rested so naturally.
Again, death swirls its black finger.
Leaving me slightly paler than a happy life.
I'm never quite as fleet as death,
(a party balloon popped by a dying cigarette...
The darkest swayback horse at best).
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