What’s left to decide,
When death is my patient bride?
What will she accept as dowry,
Except the whole of me?
Except the soul of me,
But I’ve still yet poetry.
Will the reaper pardon me?
Will he bargain with me?
Part payment now, no late fees?
Of what will my bride smell,
A waft of heaven or stench of hell?
How will she come adorned,
Silken lace, or shards fire born?
And when lung filled bellow horn,
Will Azrael walk her down the aisle of thorns?
When we consummate to what we’ve sworn,
Will the soul created be stillborn?
This bride cannot be helped by Sheikh, Rabbi or Pastor,
She’s mine to keep, ever after.
W.E.
lonerloaner 