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…
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