Death Calls

Death calls It curtailing whip on wind It sits beside me I dare not question him Or blackness inside His monk style robes Covering head and the Pitchest black I’d ever seen Seems to be covered by Small instances of light as If he wore the universe as skin I try not to notice The sickle between us Its blade shining white In the moonlight I don’t want the mystery of How many died there so I focus on completing the poem… Finish writing the poem…