Death is Walking, Hand in Mine

I hate fall
And she's walking in the afternoon
with treeskins in her pocket
crinkling and breaking
against her cold ribs

It's like Hamlet:
everything dies before the end
Even if your heart keeps beating
the final steps of this frenzied dance
will steal your last breath

A parade of corpses
in aboveground graves
spines crackling where feet fall
In a post-war battlefield
with blood-red and bruise-yellow grass

Insects whine at the doorframes
begging their way inside
mice and rats burrow and peck
at the soft underbellies of houses
they sense that we are coming...

Death is walking, hand in mine.
Fingers held in his ironclad grip.
We leech the colors from the sky
bleed the leaves and children dry
make new bones to build our thrones.

These last gasps of life
drawn from raspish lips are
building up to some apocalypse.
Even the winds will collapse.
Nothing will survive.

Until Winter bends its crooked hand
touches the dying earth with care
and stops even death in his tracks.
I am death's, but soon,
my lover will come in with the cold.

~~~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~~~

You can be my diacope, if you let me be your chiasmus. <-- More Poemage