Angelita Becerra Poet Rhyme

Death-Crone

A heart as brittle as last Autumns leaves,
Withers away and crumbles into dust.
This life is such a lonely place,
And for my death do I now lust.

A plaintive wail rips my throat,
As I entreat upon any name,
That will save me from my own destruction,
And return me whole and sane.

But alas, this wish upon my lips,
Shall be the last one I whisper.
The Death-Crone comes to me in my dreams,
And kills me gently in my slumber.

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Jon A Cavanaugh November 25, 2012 at 8:27 PM No death can kill the humble heart / that entreats the highest power / Nor break the sprit of the soul / That's been transformed into a flower. Yours seemed like such a dark poem that I thought I would write a short encouraging poem lame as my poem is. I Wish you well though.