Death

In the dim-lit corner, shadows play, Old Mr. Corpse has come to stay, With a smile that's frozen, a gaze profound, He whispers secrets without a sound. The wallpaper peels, and the air is thick, With tales of the living, and the time they pick, Dust settles softly on forgotten dreams, While laughter echoes in muffled themes. His bony hands cradle a faded book, With pages worn ragged, a well-trodden nook, Tales of his youth—a dance, a sigh, Of loves that once flourished, of moments gone by. The clock ticks slowly, each second a sigh, As we ponder the limit where living must lie, Old Mr. Corpse, with wisdom bestowed, Reflects on the paths we've all chosen to road. Conversations drift like the smoke from a fire, With remnants of passion, desire, and choir, Yet here he remains, in this room filled with dust, A reminder of fate, of decay, and of trust. So raise up your glass to the specter so stark, To the laughs that have lingered within the dark park, For in every heartbeat, in every warm breath, Is a dance with our shadows, a waltz with our death. And though he may rot, in his silence profound, Old Mr. Corpse keeps us close, safe and sound, In the tapestry woven of life and its loss, He gently reminds us—embrace, never cross.