The Touch Of Death

Skies of white and the gentle touch of cold,
a shivering spine to the core of our souls.
The crows are crying, an afternoon so windless,
the emergence of the mythical like the sinless.
Colours reverting to shades of black and white,
lives turning into inanimate sets of lost eyes.
The once brown leaves turn a sight of grey,
and the dying trees now forget to pray.
Heart beats slow by the passing of death,
a minus temperature in our gasping breaths.
This isn't a nightmare we see lying in our beds,
questions rising in our heads; is life but a test?
Death waits for none; grimacing in the shadows,
he is everywhere; even within walls so narrow.
A touch of frost from head to toe; a still heart,
this is the touch of death tearing you apart.
We live to reach; to accomplish and to succeed,
in goals, ambitions and in happiness we seek
but we forget that even we are on a time limit,
and death shall not hesitate to inflict and finish
And as we close our eyes to meet our sleep,
the sister of the spectre that we fear to meet.
A thought; a fading hope if we shall live to wake,
and with our gentle sleep decides our very fates.