Death, the Master

Tony DeLorger © 2016

Gleaned harsh in the fields of sorrow's decay,
where death writhes in iniquitous folly,
lives struggle to stand, let alone outrun inevitable ends,
guided by the shrewdly mouthed aphonic sentiments of enticement,  
shadowed, mirrored, silent whispers of trickery and guile,
from ethereal etched faces wafting on vaporous mist.

Images bring chill to hearts, nightmares to dreams, 
and lessons learned in disrepair, lost in sentient appeasing,
and deaths long arms break the bounds of reality,
clawing with venomous affray, the state of living,
when all triumphs past decompose, lay bare the soul,
to face the wily scrutiny of death's master. 

A lake of servitude sprawled out far,
its shores of prison bars enclose,
and perished souls and rotting flesh reside,
this watery grave a seething cauldron of burgeoning hatred,
alive with black intent, bubbling, 
each tainted soul pervades this brew of melding flesh,
a squirming, squelching infestation of human pain,
the master's plan so beautifully etched.

From dream to lake, a mind transposed,
its latent darkness and loss ignited like moth wings in flame,
and new souls disparaged, breach the surface in penance,
to writhe in sufferance of decay and vacuous afferent hell,
this pain, a new experience of the master's domain,
his pleasured smile, the sigh of centuries past, the aftermath.

So in the nightmares of a human mind, the master leads his symphony,
and cold, wet sleepless nights the will of his entreating,
ensue under the gaze of a blood red moon,
and all you've gleaned will be of no use you'll find,
when buried in the master's mind,
and that cauldron of human suffering, 
to long reside, and in darkness hide, within.