Death. (Musings)

Dashest with thy scepter thou creeping thing,
     Death is like the hammer and I'm the glass;
Forged on the anvil like a molting ring,
     Smoke from thy nostrils fills the air and pass.

Like all thy crypts and vaults thou gloatest o'er
     Ev'ry fallen head that is cast aside;
Thou stalks the wise, the simple, and ev'n more,
     With ev'ry chance thou get to turn the tide.

A wave of bub'ling froth and dregs thou hurls,
     The dead from yonder sea onto the crags;
Funeral pyre fills air with smoking twirls,
     Fling all the ashes to the breeze like rags.

Thou stole the wife of the old lighthouse man,
     She lays asleep in yonder agèd vault;
Yet ev'ry ev'ning there beside his clan,
     Weeping because it was some how his fault.

Thou stole the young man freshly married too,
     Leaving behind his widow young and pale;
Groping thro' the world taking lives ye do,
     Just like that widow soon to follow sail.

Just look around this Churchyard old and grey,
     Tombstones in rows like soldiers on the field;
More members sleep than on the roll I'd say,
     Then lightning flashed and the thunder it pealed.

So let these wand'rings of my solemn mind,
     Rest in the pages of these doleful lays;
Haply someone will chance be touched and find,
     Some good like beaming lights of golden rays.

~Timothy~

© Timothy 11 October, 2012