It's Death again – He's always there –
Watching, waiting, with a stare.
Every time I look behind,
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood –
A little clue to where he stood:
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But oh, no use, he'll never go –
The adamant phantom – don't you know,
He will but wait until it's time –?
For me to hear His fateful chime –
The toll that's only meant for me,
To say: 'You're next, it has to be…'

Death is in the flower's heart – don't
Ever cry for life of any petal; and so is

Death in purple ink of weary pens: the
Written yearnings on her scented paper;

Death is laughing in her cry: the
Beating heart disclosing from a sleeve.

Death ignores the plight of any purity – He
Doesn't care or seem to be aware

Of what her dewy eye desires, for
Death beckoned: 'Embrace the jar! '

And yes, she did – for Death of course.
No other man would open up her hand

And bid her with a kiss, so
Death became her bliss.



Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009


PS Please also read my other gothic poem 'Beldame of Death'








Death death death
Death death death death
Death death death death death
Death death death death death death
Death death death death death
Death death death death
Death death death

So now I've taken leave of life,
I thought you'd like to know, I still
Possess a mind in love, oh wife;
A soulful eye to catch a show of
Silent beauty – ever yours,
An ear to pick the metaphors
Of tonal dance in words you say,
Grasp a thought in verse you pray
Inside your head, bemused of mind,
Softly mournful, intertwined with
Understanding tears.

A crunch: afoot a dead arachnid
Spanning once a serving plate –
Oh! that others be alive
With such as me for spider bait!

I slunk along the silent hall
Of ancient ore attired in grime –
Feculent beyond the nose;
No bearing here, nor feel for time.

The policemen let me in

I walked into the bedroom
(Did I want to do this?)
For one last look before the morgue
Would pick up the remain
And a quick prayer for the deceased

A Ballade of Suicide G.K. Chesterton The gallows in my garden,

people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall;

I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that

knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbours on the