Mothers lose their sons and a father his precious prize
For death steals in stealth and marks grief our price
Leaves but a shadow in the hollow of one's eyes
Waits not in patience to ferry them beyond the rise
And not one can chain death or hold him hostage
Nor can one expect to escape and wave to him in passage
For he is a presence as true as life, and just as fair
A fog that fills all's lungs and robs them of their breath of air
For he must come for all, in the end or a while before
And leave his truth a'hanging that he is all life holds
What amusing irony it is and such hilarity too
That all there is to life is but life till death catches up to you
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoesíaPieces of poetry that hope to create vivid imagery, colourful worlds all your own and most importantly, intricate emotions waiting to be deciphered that can help you in your own endeavours as a creator.
