Ode To Death
he who wields scythe aloft
to reap a withered and ageing crop
the harvest of the doomed and lost
who fell to their winter's frost
the skeletal hand you must now hold
clenched so you may better feel the cold
the weak, the strong, the timid, the bold
the masses who shall no longer grow old
shed a tear for those now expired
and pray you not soon shall tire
and not six feet under, mired
when extinguished fragile fire
the dead don't love
the bones don't feel
the ground does not listen
and all with eyes to see
must someday forever sleep.
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