Monday, November 9, 2009

11.09.09 | The Phaeton of Death


Riding up and down the streets
Does the driver steer his horse;
In and out of alleyways
Does Death keep his destined course.

Turning corners big and small,
He looks forward and behind.
At every stop he welcomes
Spirits of varying kinds.

Some are young, and some ancient,
Others guilty for some crime.
All are being sent to be
Either tortured or divine.

The Phaeton so dark and drear
Was made of sable hawthorn,
By mischievous Death himself
On the day our Earth was born.

Death and Phaeton shall remain
As one, doing what they must.
They wait, counting our every breath,
For, what is Life without Death?