When death becomes a living thing

When death becomes a living thing A clawing, unseen, weepy touch A spreading stain of seeping fear A pall draped o’er the light of day When death becomes the present tense When muted voices must redress Old words, like flowers, curled and mute To free themselves from sorrow’s lie When living death subverts its role Its cape and scythe gone strangely still A coldness of the soul is held When death becomes a living thing