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They think Death is the Reaper,
Carrying his scythe,
Able to disappear into vapour,
Like a shadow in light.

But no, Death takes the shape,
Of a person, a woman at that,
With a pitch black cloak a flowing cape,
A crucifix of coal, and grace like a cat.

On rhinestone boots she treads the land,
With midnight eyes she tracks her prey,
A spear of onyx in her hand,
Her hair of ink soaking up every sun's ray.

She dons a studded ebonite vest,
With denim of iron sitting on her hip
A blood stained cutlass at her wrist,
Rings of beryl through her lip.

Her ears are pierced with needle sharp bone,
Her eyelids smudged with ash,
Her mouth a deep, blood-red tone,
the colour of night on each eyelash.

So who is this Queen of Darkness?
Who can she be?
An answer finally comes to a question ageless.
Death, is me.
Who is Death?
SamalaKatal Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2010  Hobbyist General Artist
A beautiful poem,
The words run so smooth!
As if they were laid
In a former-set groove
I could read this poem over
Again and again!
Tell me, have you read
Shakespeare's "Sonnet 10"?
Treo-LeGigeo Featured By Owner Sep 5, 2010   Writer
Hehe, thank you, glad you liked it.

Ummm, no I haven't read it, let me do so now...

Well, I'm not really a big fan of Shakespeare. I mean he's good, but I'd prefer Oscar Wilde or George Orwell.
SamalaKatal Featured By Owner Sep 6, 2010  Hobbyist General Artist
I agree that Oscar Wilde is better (I'm a bigger Poe fan then anything), and I'm not a fan of Shakespeare, but that specific poem is amazing. :)
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November 13, 2009
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