Oh Death! Miser of souls
You collect in ceaseless industry.
Not a moment’s idleness
Slows your harvest.
Always upon your steed
With your scythe ready
You approach all who call
To tempt Fate.
Too late to regret, they,
Upon seeing your visage
That harbinger of loss
Marker of doom
Maker of sorrow,
Fall in convulsive despair.
Your eternal grin defies
The lies of life
As you take the reaching hand
And lift the weeping soul
To your dance
Step, swirl, step
You move the putrid flesh
Every faster
Onward to oblivion
As the spirit anchored
Stays your partner
In this macabre spectacle.
You steal what is not yours Death!
You possess in that Dance
What belongs to an Eternity
Not yours.
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