To Shreds

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To Shreds

Death beats at my door
Hooded, caped in black sack cloth
Wielding a sickle he raps
Thanatos, the grim reaper of souls

Fate toys with me
Weaving, hanging from the thread of ether
Spinning a yarn she calls
The spider, keeper of the tapestry

Time waits for me
Counting, marking days, months, years
Bearing an hourglass he bides
The sand, falling forever

Evil taunts me
Tempting, seducing from darkness
Making promises he summons
The Prince of lies, tipping the balance

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Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.

Plato (BC 427-BC 347) Greek philosopher.

CaptKierkegaard’s Poems (5)

Title Comments
Title Comments
The Way 0
The Truth Lies 0
To Shreds 0
Cold Mornings are Like the Feeling 0
She 1