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Death That Year

 


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.
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