Herban Poetry

The death of Death

Death--or rather the absence of living;
the only true last frontier.
A landscape wholly unforgiving,
Barren yet thriving,
Expanding each moment
A melting pot of all:
ally or opponent,
the righteous or the damned,
the woman or the man.
Each feels it's kiss;
seducing,
reducing,
until naught exists.
Some leave with grace, some leave with tears
innocent infants even stripped of their years,
while the old grow cold in the hold of it's lips
like a virgin they court it
others try to abort it
But none can escape the fate that awaits.
For as sure as you breathe
one day you shall gasp
And though now your heart beats
no sound ever lasts.
The ink of the page may last through the centuries
But whether enflamed or forgotten
It, too, has an end to meet.
Immortality is imaginary.

Death is here.
And so am I
with a heart void of fear
and the driest of eyes.
My smile a mile wide
for now I realize
once all is consumed
then Death too,
shall die.