❝
Picking up the daisies beside the grave,
Death took the scythe- had my name engraved.
Is this why roses are red,
Once they were white, but the thorns made me bled?

My steps skipped faster than my heartbeat,
The black ornament shining against the razing fit-
Of glory and fame, I didn't witness,
Of the oblivious mess that paints my existence.

Death is darling, not a monster,
They preserve and prey, in brothers and lovers,
The mask of glittering galaxies,
The dirt of dread and majestic maladies.

the fine wine you brew,
the blood of my enemies you drew,
The tragedies on tapestries you sew,
The blood on the faux grass was the dew.

Death took the hollowed bones of the deceased,
Made the flute, made a needle to weave tapestries.
The clay which will caress the shell of the soul,
The smell of the tears of God, they'll be called petrichor.

The mud that lingers in your fingernails,
Will mould the Potter's pottery, till his art curtails.
The eyes of emerald, the origins of onyx-
❞

Darling, how will I be Death, if I don't take your precious life mid-sentence?

☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆

Lmao, I feel I can't write anymore. I had written half of this way before and I forgot what was the ending so plot twist!

If you mildly enjoyed this poem then don't forget to press the star thing because you don't have to pay taxes for entering the permanent list of people I don't hate.