Death's Claim
Death's Claim
When Death claims the body,
the pale unwelcome guest
untethers the living soul,
renders flesh and bone into dust.
The body's mortal suffering
is swiftly melted down
and, like the body's blood,
dissolves in Death's cold hand.
The spirit soars and sings,
the senses embrace the bliss.
The heart, its task ended,
sublimes away to nothingness.
When death claims the spirit,
ignoring the reeling mind,
the soul is a prisoner,
its fickle ways confined.
Flesh hangs limp on the bone;
bone aches more than the flesh.
The senses slowly drown
in a river of emptiness.
The spirit sags and kneels
under its own leaden weight.
Mortal suffering seems endless.
the heart is disconsolate.
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