Death comes not boldly,
On a pale horse rampant,
Nor as a conqueror wreathed
In battle smoke.
Rather, as a tap on the shoulder
From one unseen, who was yet
There all the while.
No drums, no regal panoply,
No rows of trumpets sounding,
Just the momentary snuffing
Of a candle, as when a workman
Closes shop at the end of the day.
This is not the Grim Reaper; no,
Nor the Destroyer of Worlds,
Only the silent revolving of a door,
The settling of waves gently back
Into the sea.
Poetry by: John Creekmore
