L’amour de La Mort

By Kathleen Palmer


He pulls her heartstrings

she says,

not today.

He sent His lovers flowers

but they all

ran away.

And when He but barely

mentions His name,

they grow pale

from fear;

He grows dark

with shame.


It must be such a lonely

existence for Death.

He offers a kiss

and steals their breath.

He cries out forever

take My hand.

Yet remains all alone

I think I may understand.

That love of Life

the opposing fire.

The yearning for acceptance

the silent desire.


There in the dark He calls

He knows we dread His voice

The sad and lonely face of Love

That never can stop falling

He burns us with His blatant heart

We wound Him with our choice

And ’till, at last, true love He finds

His voice will go on calling.

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