Fluent Mortals

The first time I spoke with Death
I did not understand His words. 
He spoke in cryptic characters, 
Used arcane abstract symbols. 
He provided me a shroud,
A cloud to obscure memory. 
He took mercy on a youth 
And took from him recollection. 
Life has since taught me the language,
Her cruel tutelage in preparation 
For when Death comes back around. 
For when our conversation does not end. 

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allets's picture


I like this poem.



Sky's picture


I'm glad you enjoyed this simple piece. 


We'll just keep writing 'til there's nothing left to write.

We'll just keep waiting 'til they read all our works left to right.