The Sky Of Death

Alone on the back porch with a time in my hand
Breathing in all the night air and seeing that man,

I stopped in that moment and with vigor did stare
And the sky looked back at me with an odd sort of glare.

I looked at the moon and it hung quite up high
I was an old man then just waiting to die.

And I’ll tell you that story of how death came to me
How I saw it take night passed my old willow tree.

For the moon that I looked at in the midst of that sky
Would be the sick means for this old man to lie.

The sky turned so vast next, some indigo shade,
And then death took its form in the sky it had made.

With his indigo cloak he wrapped up his form,
And then grabbed out the moon which caused a brief storm.

Then the clouds that were resting like hay in a field,
Were loath to leave the heavens but soon they did yield.

Then the wind whipped around me and slashed at my face.
I stood like a man; I hugged back death’s embrace.

And the moon was not full but rather a sliver,
And it shimmered with light which caused a slight shiver.

I looked at the tool now that the moon had turned into,
Which was wrapped with Death’s hands in a shade still of blue.

For the moon was His sickle taken down from its place,
And he stood now upon me and I asked for no grace.

I stood up and looked at what once was the moon,
And with opened arms welcomed my bent welcome boon.

That sky that was death with that moon as his weapon,
Stood curling dead fingers; for my soul they did beckon.

Then the moon that I’d watched, death swung it down on me,
And it sliced through my body so my soul was set free.

Death threw back the moon and it stuck where it should.
And the sky came back after, like I knew that it would.

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