Death Comes
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Author's Notes: "Death Comes" is a new Lyric poem I just completed on August 3, 2017. As with some other poems of this related genre, I was (again) inspired with the themes of death and transformation by another reading and contemplation of Sylvia Plath's classically-renown and very sad poem from February 5, 1963, called "Edge." In "Death Comes," though, I pushed my lyric narrative toward a macabre direction, whereby I discuss the recent death and funeral viewing of a beloved person by family and friends, and then relate some open chatter among the attendees about the final-fatal effect of the "myth" concerning the icy-cold touch of the "Master Thief." This term, "Master Thief," is, of course, a euphemism for the spectre of "Death." Taking things a step further, however, I go beyond just mentioning "Death," and essentially focus on the more horrific nature associated with the traditional "Grim Reaper" sort of apparition resident in earlier classical literature. As the lyric narrative continues to unfold, the protagonist or narrator, in this instance, after confronting the faint echoing voice of "Death Himself" whilst situated outside the funeral home in the icy-cold night air, then truly begins to realize that the so-called "myth" is not a myth at all. Rather, this ethereal spectre, colloquially referred to as the "Master Thief," is, of course, "Death Himself" in the classical guise and poetic sense of the "Grim Reaper" with his "blackish-grey frozen hand, arrayed with jaggedly-long fingernails." This lyric is a very good one for some bedtime reading right before you turn off your bedside table lamp. Sweet Dreams!! (Gary Bateman - August 3, 2017)
Categories: change, dark, death, horror, lyric, metaphor, and symbolism.
Death Comes
All arguments and denials were fruitless;
The deceased fell prey to the Master Thief.
The “One” whose icy-cold touch is . . .
Just Too Cold to Resist! . . . They Say!
No worries though . . . They Say:
“He looks so life-like!”
“He looks like he’s sleeping!”
“They do wonders with embalming fluid, don’t they!”
“Who wants to live forever anyway?”
The deceased’s body epitomizes all four.
I’m sure the deceased appreciated them all . . .
As if the dead could talk and nod in agreement.
Alas! The body’s texture is . . . Cold-Rock-Hard.
No surprises here!
The thoughts of what might’ve been,
Are now . . .
What could’ve been and what should’ve been!
“I guess we’ll never really know.” . . . They Say.
“I wonder what he would say?” . . . They Say.
“But the dead don’t talk.” . . . I Say.
That icy-cold touch of the Master Thief . . .
It was just too cold to resist!
The sweet ‘n stale odors now so deep in the air,
Overwhelm everyone packed in the funeral parlor.
The loved ones, friends, and visitors all walk
Outside into the very frigidly-cold night air.
An anxious pale-yellow full moon awaits us all . . .
It looms now larger-than-life across the cold-night sky.
It looks down at all of us . . . so sad and so forlorn.
All of us seemed to be momentarily spellbound by this
Mournful visage of the full moon on this very sad night.
Perhaps, this was an omen of some sort—I thought.
But what to do?
A life is over . . . A person is dead.
I walked away from the others in our group before
Preparing to leave.
I needed take some time, some moments, to collect my
Thoughts and memories of my dear deceased friend who
Was lying now all alone only steps away inside of the
Confines of dimly-lit chamber of the mortuary nearby.
As I slowly walked away, very deep in thought, it was only
A few minutes later, and then I suddenly stopped . . .
When, I started to hear the faint echo of a deep-raspy voice
Sounding out some very strange words in the cold-night air.
These faint words had a definite imperative resonance,
Sounding almost like inexplicable, ethereous vibrations.
“You know the Myth, they say, is true my sad friend.”
“Yes, my icy-cold touch is just too cold to resist!”
“But don’t worry though . . . you won’t feel a thing!”
The faint echo of this deep-raspy voice sounded once more . . .
“No worries though . . . it’s not yet your time!”
The very last sound I heard before quickly leaving the area was
An eerie rattle of frozen-ice droplets colliding intensely in the air,
Whilst making a high-pitched crystalline-like type of sound.
All very spooky for sure, I thought . . .
These frozen-ice droplets reflected the macabre image of a faint
Blackish-grey frozen hand, arrayed with jaggedly-long fingernails!
I then, momentarily gasped and paused—then gasped again,
Whilst transfixed in a moment of true fear and mesmerization!
It was like my mind, my very being was in a catatonic state,
A mental stupor of sorts . . . and then, I snapped out of it!
Yes, ah . . . I thought, ah . . . Oh No! . . . Oh God! . . . It’s Him!
It’s Death Himself!
He’s the “One” whose icy-cold touch is . . . Just Too Cold to Resist!
Death Comes!
May God Help Us All!
Requiescat In Pace.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
August 3, 2017 (Lyric)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2017
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