Across the faint shores of Death's bleary night, there ends my dreary day.
Across lands of Life's picturesque scythe, she then broke my dead white withes.
Swept in rot it may be by dusks of day, forgotten they shall say,
yet with Death's dance o'er withes, no sword of mine now made by blacksmiths.
For war was no more in Death's land.
To indulge in dreams of war no longer, that be Death's sweet conquer,
for in the drear mist of Death's warming home, there laid no blood nor blear.
As Life's darkness of bone and blood now conquer, Death stood by longer
to open its fronds of blear, and gilds on thee an ethereal smear-
A blaze long lost in Life's land.
Little have my blinded eyes of blood have seen through Life's blear sheen,
unto Death soothing scents of morning dew brushed the wars' blood askew.
"Need not wrought thy soul of wretched spleen, for thou reached thy final sheen,"
soothed Death as he healed my sight anew whilst a tree of yew loomed in view.
The tree of yew in Slumber's land.
YOU ARE READING
ꨄ 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑ꨄ
PoetryLife and Death; Joy and Sorrow. They're just two wings to the same body.
