By the Wayside

Death crouches by the wayside

Circling lithely around men’s pride

Stretching gaunt limbs toward a poor soul

Like an overwhelming tide                               

With a cloak of obsidian and thorns he lurks

To mask his mirth and glee

Each chosen man fearfully shirks

At the eternal darkness he will see

Death prides in his fortuity

Striking as a cunning snake

He sweeps loved ones to lands of serenity

While the left behind mourn in their wake

Each soul of pure diamond or rubble

Each youth or widower of old

Their flesh will eventually crumble

Their silent corpse lies tranquil and cold

Death does not pity the superstitious

Who kneel with sweet incense and pray

The revered deities ignore the pious

Who commit unto righteousness each day

The meek accept their fate’s demise

While the stubborn refuse repentance

But the lifeless depart with a silent goodbye

Leaving the world in sweet transcendence

He raves and grouses in a flurry of rage

When a strong hand slips through his grasp

He waits for the soul with a tether and cage

Until they return to his waiting handclasp

Death will forever sit atop his throne of misery

Loosing his cloak as he stealthily bounds

Gathering precious souls without a forewarning

And returning each life to their plot in the ground