The Woman Called Death

I seek death,
And yet it does not find me.

It lingers there like a sociopath.
It has a smell.
An unnatural odor that fills the room.

Waiting,
Like some awkward child in the corner.
Shied away but then coming forth when she sees a smile.
Blood trailing down thy arm,
Yet death does not find me.
It looks at the blood lustfully,
But does not come towards me.

In sooth it is no longer a child,
But a skeleton with a shapely body,
It feasts on the lives of man.
It gorges itself and does not cease,
Not even for a moment.

In sooth, it waits above the very death-bed of man,
And watches, drinking in the breath of each one,
And counting every breath slowly.
She sits on his chest applying pressure,
And ensuring his death,
Causing each breathe to come slower.

It fornicates with the flesh,
Driving out the last of his energy,
And taking it thusly for herself.
In the waning ostentatious moments of ones death,
We find ones character from birth,
Whether they be noble or ignoble,
Even then they ask for repentance.
Groveling...

A fire deep in the well of ones mind,
And yet Death does not weep,
Rather reaches climax on the eve of your demise.
She takes it in and does not release.
Fine and delicate, bones for fingers,
And she draws in your lifeforce,
And drinks deep to the point of implosion.

Only then does she smile.
And I tell you truthfully,
Her smile could kill ya'.

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By Aaron D. 12/30/12