Change comes
with the stealth of a hunting tiger.
creeps upon you in your times of weakness,
grabs your neck,
forces its bitter poison down your throat.
Change has come
with the cold of Antarctica's winter.
You look around,
here,
there,
all is misplaced,
as after a robbery, a stealing
of all your joy and gladness.
Change goes,
fades away like winter's last breath.
You realize
that you've already adapted,
you've gotten used to this newness,
you're alright,
because you've changed.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry of Death
Poetry"You kept saying that you would never die, that you would live forever. But here you are, and here I am. Isn't it funny? I'm here to take your soul. Did I mention, I love my job? Oh right! I never told you. I'm the reaper who will reap your life." B...
