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




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