Shadow of Death

© Dan Fox

 

Shadows, vertical pools of ink, wash up and down the walls,

Slowly creeping, inching.

Which way they slither is hard to tell,

With endless depths that hold no real form,

Sliding in all directions, their shape is meaningless.

Sliding in all directions, their purpose is sinister.

There is no guilt or remorse,

They have come for a man's soul.

A stinking mass of death and decay grows inside his chest.

An oily tumor clutches his lung,

Pushing inside him, it grows bigger.

Pinching inside him, it saps his strength.

The pain he feels he attributes to old age.

The mass will consume his vitality,

Shadows will feast on his essence soon after.

Such is the way that death takes us all.

The method may differ,

The result is the same.