wackywordwhiz

  Death that Year was done being distraught With dreadful personifications, the poets had wrought. The cloak and the scythe, why must it carry? When those at its mercy, trot around unwary. A sickly skeleton in its stead they parade. And reduce its fierce thud to a sneaky charade. It’s time to retaliate, to rightfully deface Those that wronged it had consequences to face. Scythe nor a mace, nor a twisted lasso, A whiff of its breath sufficed, verily it was so. Scattered like rats, each found his burrow; And left the needy and dying, drowning in sorrow. Those that marred it had now been defaced; Real ugliness from their shallow facades surfaced. And lest they credit the passing year with disgrace, Death, in its mercy, snuffed out its very trace.

Is that Quiet Resignation I see? On the face of the forsaken old man. But he isn't quite alone, is he? We are all in the same wretched can. Men stuck in jobs they hate,  Women pining over unrequited love, Share an identical fate, With Orphans fending for bed and dough. Having sought love from this world, They've learnt a bitter lesson untold. Oh! We are so incapable of love! Tragedy, our amiable foe!   Really, we are all loveless scum,  Death is a much-awaited horror. The Quiet Resignation I see in them,  Stares back at me in the mirror.