Poetry Corner

Death wears white,
pristine,
untouched

Needs to wash it every night;
from the spots of blood, from the dirt of graves, from a thousand hands grasping onto his robe in a plea -
let us live.

Death rides a white horse,
"Like bone?" - No, like a horse's short hair over a horse's thick muscles and flesh, rippling as it gallops,
travels across the land
and stops to eat fresh green grass near a cold spring hidden in vegetation.

Death has no scythe, sword,
machine gun,
only his bony finger,
graceful, elegant,
points.




Inspired by a line from silvercobwebs