Friday, February 5, 2010

One Saturday Morning

Death crept in with the crack of light underneath the bedroom door
How-do-you-do or don't-you-do
(you won't be doing much anymore)

Through the murky half-lit dawn of pesky hour five
He settled languid by your side
(you won't make it out alive)

He doused your spark in the stark and naked cloak of ignorance
Lips stitched shut and tinted blue
(your haven't spoken since)

With no one near to hear the fear encased on rattling breath
He took his due a decade late
(you paid your debt to Death)

Death slipped out with soul in hand under cover of tortured cry
Tip-of-the-hat, we're going now
(you could have said goodbye)

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