Dancing with Death

5 Comments

Tags:
  • Love
    • ,
  • Dark Poetry
    • ,
  • Life

    Poem Commentary

    The first stanza came to mind and I started to write and write...

    Dancing with Death

     Last night death appeared to me,
    in the form of a young man
    And we danced the night away
    side by side and hand in hand.

    He leaned in close and whispered
    that it was my time to go
    So I begged with him in vain
    as we spun across the floor.

    He put his finger to my lips
    and silenced my poor pleas
    Before he swept me off my feet
    and gave my hand a sqeeze.

    Now I'm in death's castle
    in a palace with no faults
    Dancing in the ballroom
    to an endless winter waltz.

    Poem Comments

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    MindNumbing commented on Dancing with Death

    10-08-2010

    **BRAVO** This is incredible! Definitely an interesting twist on the idea of where death will take us after life. Thanks for sharing this little gem!
    Reply to Comment

    Springsize commented on Dancing with Death

    09-18-2010

    Your poem has a good sense of movement, easy and although you changed the meter for the last two verses... your count in each, was exacting and it fit. The intent of this poem... is one of romance... to see death as a dance in the eternal waltz is beautiful... and I wish it were so easy to leave... perhaps for some, it is... thank you for this view that I had not considred.
    Reply to Comment

    WordSlinger commented on Dancing with Death

    08-18-2010

    wow backwards awesome, can you tell me the name of the symphony that played, ty ws
    Reply to Comment

    Troy commented on Dancing with Death

    08-18-2010

    wow wonderfull write , to be wisked away by death and held forever in that cold embrace
    Reply to Comment

    Rhymer commented on Dancing with Death

    08-17-2010

    Excllent write, intriguing, the question remains. Is this heaven or hell?
    Reply to Comment

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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