Wednesday, 11 January 2012


by pete marshall

The amber glows on darkened walls
as embers spit within the hearth
A finger trawls an ancient list
and takes a name that’s walked its path

The creak of leather mars the sound
as Death would glide across the floor
and from a hook he takes his robe
and holds his scythe to reap once more

The horsemen ride beyond his grasp
to sow the seeds for Death to seek
the roots lie strong within the fields
as harvest gathers in the meek

His mouth is curled with withered lips
and eyes are sunk beyond his soul
his mind cares not for creed or Man
as Death collects his countless toll


Originally published at One Stop Poetry 11th Sep 2010


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