Poetry Post

29th September 2016

The harpist, Death, plucks at my veins as though they were strings

Playing the quiet song of my mortality.

With long, thin claws he taps each chord

And, pleased with the sound, he strums along.

Not the heavy steps of a funeral march,

Or the orchestral hum of many in tune,

Just a soft tinkling melody heard over roaring wind

In a storm that rages on toward eternity.