The Totentanz Sonnets

Death’s Pavane

The Genesis of Man

GOD, Sky, Sea, Earth—He shaped from formless night,
To show the vast dominion of His will;
He spoke, and matter sprang to life and light,
The void compelled His purposes to fill.
He traced the bounds where sky and ocean lie,
Set stars in order, earth on axis spun;
The moon to rule the dark, the sun the sky,
All elements obeyed the Sovereign One.
Then from the clay He formed with care and breath
A man to bear the likeness of the Source;
And woman too, companion unto death,
Together joined in love’s ordained discourse.
Thus fashioned we, by hand divine begun,
God’s image mirrored in His moon and sun.

The Fall of Man

Adam by Eve was drawn from wisdom’s path,
And took the fruit forbidden by the Lord;
They broke the bond, incurred eternal wrath,
Transgressing Heaven's single, sacred word.
The garden's peace gave way to toil and thorn,
As Death laid claim to all of mortal kind;
From that first act, all future souls are born
To bear the weight of sin in flesh and mind.
No sword nor prayer could stay the hasting doom,
Nor fig leaves hide the guilt their hearts had sown;
From Eden cast to wander in the gloom,
Bereft of grace, they toiled and died alone.
Thus did one bite the human fate constrain—
Through Adam's fall, all sons of dust know pain.

Exile and Doom

God drove forth Man from Eden’s blissful gate,
To labor long beneath the sun’s harsh gaze,
Where thorns and thistles mark his altered fate,
And sweat of brow must earn his meager days.
No more the tree of life his hand may find,
Nor angels sing where innocence once grew;
His burdened path by toil and pain defined,
His years but breath the winds of time pursue.
Then came pale Death, the warden of decay,
To claim his due from all of Adam’s line;
No wealth, no strength can turn his hand away,
For dust must yield to dust by law divine.
Thus Man must reap what once his pride began:
The grave receives the fallen son of Man.

To Dust Returned

Cursed in thy toil, the earth thou’lt strain and sow,
Its stubborn yield thy bread by sweat shall be;
Through sun and storm thy fleeting years shall go,
In pain thou’lt age, thy joys but memory.
The fields resist, though once they gave with grace,
Now briars bloom where Eden’s bounty lay;
The thorns, like guilt, rise up in every place,
And mark the price thy fall was doomed to pay.
No hand may halt what God hath once decreed:
That Death shall come and lay thy labor low.
No crown of man, nor ever-noble deed,
Shall shield from dust, where all must surely go.
For earth was thine in form, and thus remains:
To dust thou shalt return, and there remain.

The Summons of All Flesh

O wretched ones who walk the weary ground,
By sorrow haunted, ever grieved by care,
Though fleeting joys in moments may be found,
Yet pain and loss return to all who dare.
Our hearts may soar when love or mirth is near,
And youth may bloom with promise in its prime,
But shadows lengthen with each passing year,
And joy runs thinner with the thread of time.
The hand of Death, unseen, is ever nigh,
He waits not long to reap what breathes below;
No wealth, nor wit, nor tears can Death deny—
The final debt all flesh is sworn to owe.
Though life be bright or burdened by despair,
All meet the dust beneath Death’s equal stare.

The Fall of Mortal Pride

Who deem’st thyself secure from Death’s fell hand,
Know well thy breath is but a fleeting spark;
Though high as priest or prince thou proudly stand,
Thy throne is dust when skies at last grow dark.
Thy robes, thy scepter, and thy gilded name
Are trophies Time and Silence love to spoil;
No grandeur shields thee from the grave’s cold claim,
Nor pomp resists the weight of funeral soil.
For Death waits not on majesty or might,
Nor cares he for the pageant of thy state;
He levels all beneath his cloak of night,
And shows how low the proud become of late.
Then boast not, man, nor build thy hope too high—
The worm shall feast where now thy glories lie.

The Chariots of Death

Thy house thou’lt leave, as all must do in time,
For worldly goods are but a fleeting breath;
No wealth nor art can buy a higher clime,
When comes the call from silent lord of death.
Thy halls shall echo with another’s voice,
Thy lands shall pass to hands thou never knew;
What once thou deemed thy own, was not thy choice—
The grave alone keeps title firm and true.
Thy golden couch shall rust beneath the clay,
Thy feast forgotten, and thy name a sigh;
For dust shall claim what time did once array,
And worms inherit what was raised so high.
There rest the chariots that thy pride did steer,
Drawn not by steeds, but by the grave’s austere.

The Mortal Crown

The king who reigns in gold today shall fall,
Tomorrow sealed in silence 'neath the stone.
Though courtiers bend and nations heed his call,
Death claims him still, unchallenged and alone.
His robes, once bright, shall rot beneath the shroud,
His scepter rest in dust no hand can wield;
The trumpets mute, the multitude unbowed,
His throne a tale, his conquests unconcealed.
No king, however proud his sway may be,
Hath borne aught more than breath to death’s domain.
He goes as beggar goes, though royally—
The flesh the same, the bones as bare remain.
Let not vain pomp thy fleeting state beguile:
The crown is lent, but Death shall reign the while.

The Perverter of Judgment

Woe unto those whose tongues corrupt the right,
Who cloak in law the foulness they defend,
Who turn the day of justice into night,
And make the noble cause to baseness bend.
With bribes they gild the hand that should be pure,
And flatter guilt while innocence they sell;
They deem their power stable and secure,
Yet build their thrones upon the gates of hell.
The righteous voice they silence with a fee,
The virtuous cause they trample for their gain,
They call it law, yet sow iniquity,
And leave the wise to labor but in vain.
Yet Judgment comes, not swayed by gold or lies:
The Judge of all the earth shall not disguise.

The Leveler

You who with haughty air and lifted head,
Do strut as though the world were thine alone,
And spurn the humble earth on which you tread,
Shall one day make that very dust your throne.
Though robes of state may sweep along the floor,
And crowds may bow to catch thy fleeting glance,
Death waits unmoved outside your gilded door,
Unmoved by lineage, title, wealth, or stance.
For he who walks in pride, though high he soar,
Must stoop at last beneath the reaper’s blade;
The breath once claimed as his shall be no more,
His flesh no firmer than the flowers that fade.
The grass you trod shall one day overgrow
Your crumbling form laid silent far below.

The Reckoning of the Vain

Rise, you ladies rich and proud with grace,
Whose laughter echoes through the painted halls;
Attend the whispers time shall not efface,
The voices crying from the shadowed walls.
Though garlands bloom upon your powdered brow,
And jeweled gowns in candlelight may gleam,
The grave prepares its silence even now,
To end the splendor of your fleeting dream.
The years of mirth, though long, are quickly past,
And beauty’s reign gives way to chill despair;
You’ll kneel at dusk, when joy retreats at last,
And find no balm in perfume, gold, or prayer.
For Death, unmoved by satin, silk, or thread,
Recites your judgment with the voiceless dead.

The Fall of the Shepherds

Priests I shall strike with equal, level hand,
No mitred head shall Death’s cold reach forgo;
The crozier drops, no more to bless the land,
Their pomp dissolved in silence far below.
Though robes may gleam and altars richly shine,
No sacred oil can bar the tomb’s demand;
The pulpit’s voice, once thunderous, shall decline,
And dust alone shall hold the preaching band.
Their flocks, once gathered 'neath the holy dome,
Shall wander through the field in ghostly wane,
No shepherd left to guide them safely home,
No psalm to soothe, no sacrament to gain.
For Death, indifferent to the soul’s disguise,
Strikes mitred heads as low as beggars’ cries.

The Throne of Dust

Come, proud-born prince, descend and walk with me,
Leave off thy purple, cast aside thy crown.
For what is scepter, state, or sovereignty,
When Death ascends to pull all glory down?
Thy worldly throne, though high, is but a breath,
A gilded lie that fools the eye of time;
No pomp withstands the whispering steps of Death,
No courtly art escapes his tolling chime.
He waits not long to call thee from thy gate,
Though serfs may cry and courtiers bend the knee;
Thy might is dust, thy legacy but fate—
For none are great when graves demand their fee.
In Death alone are princes truly free,
All kingdoms leveled in mortality.

The Irony of Praise

I've always praised the dead much more than those
Who walk among the living steeped in sin;
The grave, I deemed, a refuge from our woes,
Where silence speaks, and peace at last begins.
The living falter, gripped by pride and lust,
Their honors stained, their wisdom oft betrayed;
But in the tomb, all lies return to dust,
And even kings beneath its weight are laid.
Yet lo! the hour comes—I hear the tread
Of Death, who knocks with cold and hollow breath;
He comes for me, whose words so praised the dead,
To join the ranks of silent sleep in death.
And now I fear, beneath his darkened dome,
To praise no more, for I too must lie home.

No Man Escapes

What man exists, however high or grand,
Whose might can wrest him from Death's grasping claw?
The scepter trembles in the strongest hand
When fate exacts its cold, eternal law.
The king, the slave, the sage in learned scroll,
All stand alike beneath that silent stroke.
No wealth redeems the breathing of the soul,
No plea from lips the final bond can broke.
Though temples rise and marble statues gleam,
Though songs record thy glory’s fleeting breath,
All vanish like the image in a dream—
So stern and absolute is sovereign Death.
When that dark hand strikes down both great and small,
No soul escapes the grave that waits for all.

The Reaper's Righteous Claim

From midst the corrupt I'll pluck my prey,
Those gilded judges who forswore their vow,
Who weighed not justice in their proud display,
But bent the law to greed's ignoble brow.
Their scales tipped heavy with the briber's gold,
Their verdicts sold like wares in common trade,
While widows wept and orphans' pleas grew cold -
Such crimes as these my scythe shall not evade.
No exemption will Death withhold nor spare,
No silken robe protect your guilty breast,
No vaulted hall obstruct my entrance there,
No plea delay your final, fateful rest.
To other realms I'll sweep you swift away -
Where golden bribes buy but a fiercer day.

The Artful Tyrant's Law

The cunning man who clearly saw with eyes
Sharpened by malice, trained on weaker prey,
How innocence might be betrayed with lies
And truth be strangled ere it sees the day.
Then used the pathways of the law he knew,
Not as a shield to guard the common right,
But as a hammer to subdue and slew,
To twist the day and sanctify the night.
With writs and seals he dressed his cruel intent,
Made tyranny wear justice's noble face,
While weeping victims to the judges sent
Found law's high halls but sanctioned their disgrace.
Thus crushed the poor beneath the blade he swung -
The law his weapon, God's name on his tongue.

The Reckoning of the Just

To rich men's counsel you attend with haste,
Your ears inclined to gold's seductive song,
While beggars' pleas you scorn as bitter waste,
Their rightful claims dismissed as weak and wrong.
You dine with lords on silver plates so fine,
Yet turn from orphans starving in the street;
You drink sweet wine while widows weep for wine,
And call such justice with your tongue deceit.
Your vaults are filled with ill-gotten gain,
Your robes are lined with stolen threadbare wool,
But earthly treasures cannot ease the pain
When Death's cold hand shall make your proud heart dull.
Come Judgment Day, your cries you'll send in vain -
God's scales weigh all, and all must bear their chain.

Woe Unto the Twisters of Truth

Woe to you who dare confound and blind,
With serpent tongue and cunning art refined,
Who dress foul vice in virtue's spotless gown
And cast sweet mercy's face in sorrow down.
You call the good as ill, the ill as good,
Make straight paths crooked where the righteous stood,
Turn honeyed words to ash within the mouth,
And sour the wine of truth with bitter drouth.
Mixing poison in the clearest stream,
Bitter with the sweet to foul life's dream,
You serve your brothers tainted, deadly fare
While laughing at their pain with mocking stare.
Poisoning your brother's daily bread -
God sees the blackness in your heart instead.

The Last Rites of Mortal Kin

I bear the holy sacrament with care,
The sacred oils, the body of my Lord,
To ease the dying soul's oppressive fear,
To whisper peace through scripture's living word.
To aid the failing in their final need,
I kneel beside the bed where breath grows faint,
Though trembling hands perform each holy deed,
And faltering voice recites each blessed saint.
Though I too am mortal, bent with years,
My joints like winter branches stiff and sore,
My vision dimmed by time's relentless tears,
My step unsure upon this earthly floor.
And soon like him to death must I descend -
Who tends the priest when priests too meet their end?

Hunger’s Final Mercy

You who know nor care nor shame’s restraint,
Whose hollow eyes see naught but bread’s dear cost,
Whose trembling hands still grasp at visions faint
Of meals long missed and warmth forever lost.
You feel but hunger’s gnawing, endless pain,
That claws your ribs and sings through empty veins,
That steals the mind which cannot think again
Beyond the next crust begged from pity’s remains.
Yet Death, who comes unbribed by gold or prayer,
Shall shade you with his wings just as the great -
No king’s rich tomb more certain of his care,
No saint more sure to pass heaven’s gate.
Freeing you from want’s unyielding chain -
The poor at last find rest from earthly pain.

The Broad Way's Bitter End

This path seems good to humankind's dull sight,
Where multitudes in blinded concord tread,
Where vice puts on fair virtue's shining white
And evil crowns itself with reason's head.
Most righteous in man's shallow judging eyes,
Approved by custom, praised by folly's tongue,
It winds through valleys pleasant to the wise,
With siren songs to old and sweetly sung.
Yet at its end, when all illusions fade,
When mists dissolve before the rising sun,
All men shall find the wage that error paid -
The sum of all the sins that they have done.
Death's hand that every sinner surely ties
Waits where the road of seeming goodness lies.

Death's Gentle Reprieve

In pain I've lived through countless weary years,
Each dawn a burden, every night too long,
My cup of sorrow filled with bitter tears,
My heart grown faint beneath oppression's throng.
My will to live now fully spent and worn,
Like autumn leaves that tremble in the breeze,
No more to face the harshness of the morn,
No more to bend or beg on aching knees.
Yet now at last my soul begins to rise,
Unshackled from this flesh so torn and rent,
It turns toward darkness with relieved sighs,
Where endless peace becomes my long lament.
To find Death kinder than life's cruel extent -
A gentle hand where living was torment.

Physician, Heal Thyself

You know each malady so well, so wise,
Each fever's course, each palsy's trembling touch,
With learned eye you trace disease's guise,
And name each ill that pains the flesh o'ermuch.
To cure the sick beneath your gentle hand,
To mix the draught that brings the dying breath,
To read Death's signs none else may understand,
And stay his coming for a time, till death.
Yet foolish sage, though all men seek your art,
Though tongues proclaim your skill both far and near,
You cannot tell what gnaws your secret heart,
What creeping ill your own bones comes to shear.
What plague will lay you 'neath the silent land -
For Death takes all who heal at his command.

Oracle to Thyself

With double speech you prophesy so bold,
Your forked tongue declares what fates decree,
Foretelling doom when planets turn too cold,
Or fortune's smile when stars align to thee.
What storms shall wreck the sailor on the tide,
What kings shall fall by treason's sharpened knife,
What plagues shall spread their pallor far and wide -
All this you read as plainly as your life.
Then read the stars that dance above your head,
Consult the cards you deal with practiced art,
Divine from bones what oracles have said -
When Death shall pierce your own prophetic heart?
You chart all paths save one that you must tread:
The seer's own doom remains forever unread.

Death and the Miser's Gold

Tonight Death comes to claim his rightful due,
His shadow stretching o'er your trembling form,
No coin can bribe the fate that waits for you,
No vault withstands the coming of the storm.
Tomorrow seals your coffin's narrow view,
The final lid upon your grasping hands,
That clutched at wealth while seasons fled anew,
And scorned the beggar's plea throughout the lands.
But tell me, fool—when clay becomes your bed,
When worms compose your final epitaph,
When all your ledgers fade to dust and dread,
Who'll keep the sums or chart your golden path?
Who'll clutch the rusted treasure you held dear?
The grave knows neither banker nor cashier.

Death's Final Ledger

Vain is he who scrapes and saves with care,
Each golden coin like sacred relic kept,
Who counts his wealth with miser's frantic stare,
While beggars starve and widows weakly wept.
False treasures built on others' broken bones,
On backs bent low beneath his cruel demand,
On orphan's tears and widow's mournful moans—
A kingdom raised on blood and stolen land.
Death shall make his ledger stark and plain,
No columns left to show his grand deceit,
No sums to prove his profit-over-pain,
No totals masking bitter ash and heat.
No chains hold fast what worms shall soon contain—
The grave devours both golden crown and chain.

The Devil's Ledger

To clutch at wealth of worldly, fleeting kind,
Like fools who grasp at shadows in the stream,
Is but to tempt the devil's crafty mind
To weave for you his golden, gilded dream.
It steals your wits with promises so fair,
Then blinds your eyes to truth's enduring light,
It binds your soul in chains of hollow care,
And veils your days in endless, restless night.
Like moths that dance around the fatal flame,
You chase bright coins that burn your trembling hand,
While angels weep to see you play this game,
And demons laugh to watch you take their stand.
And drags you down to hell's eternal mire -
A pauper's soul in rich man's funeral pyre.

The Meek Shall Inherit

See how the oppressed at last arise,
No longer bowed beneath the lash’s sting,
Their quiet strength a force none can despise,
As justice stirs on freedom’s broken wing.
Their silent hands, once chained, now break the strong,
Not forged in steel nor armed with vengeful blade,
But weighted with the burden borne so long,
With patience turned to power long delayed.
No blade needed—just hollow, haunting eyes,
That speak of sorrows no tongue could relay,
Whose gaze now makes the mighty despise
The sins they wrought in light of brighter day.
To hurl the cruel where they have wrought such wrong—
The harvest reaped from seeds of pain they’ve sown.

Death's Unadorned Truth

Naked to the grave you go alone,
No silken shroud nor gilded shroud to keep,
No servant's hand to shield your flesh from stone,
No mourners' gold to purchase endless sleep.
Death's tally marks your final fleeting breath,
His ledger blind to titles you possessed,
Your deeds weighed not in pomp but only death,
Your worth reduced to bones within your chest.
Your glory fades like melting snow in spring,
That shone so bright beneath the winter sun,
Now turned to mud where worms their banquets bring,
And all your conquests dwindle into none.
No crown survives the grave's unyielding test -
Death strips the mighty to their bones like all the rest.

Death and the Miser's Folly

Tonight Death's grip shall take you fast and cold,
No bribe of gold can stay his grasping hand,
No vault so deep, no chain so strong to hold
His timeless claim on all your hoarded land.
Tomorrow sealed in coffin's narrow bed,
Your flesh shall feed the worms you can't deceive,
Your jewels become but dirt about your head,
Your treasured deeds but food for those who grieve.
Now tell me, fool - when breath has left your chest,
When mourners take their leave of all your might,
When time has laid your memory to rest,
Who'll keep the watch o'er riches day and night?
Who'll claim the wealth you clutched with jealous care?
The grave takes all - and leaves your gold right there.

Folly's Brief Delight

In worldly wealth they spend their fleeting days,
Their hearts enchained by gold's deceptive glow,
They chase false dreams through sin's entangled maze,
Yet reap but thorns where roses seemed to grow.
In fleeting joys they drown their hollow fears,
With laughter loud that masks the soul's deep cry,
Each cup they drain but multiplies their tears,
Each pleasure sought brings but a sharper sigh.
Then plunge to Hell in sudden, swift descent,
No warning knell to stay their fatal course,
Where all their hoarded treasures lie misspent,
And gold becomes their everlasting curse.
Where mirth turns dark as endless night takes hold -
Their bought delights now paid in Hell's own gold.

Love's Severed Thread

Love that made us live as one in bliss,
That wove our souls in sacred, sweet design,
That sealed our lips with truth's eternal kiss,
And made your every heartbeat merge with mine.
Prepared our hearts in faithful, golden twine,
Each strand so strong no storm could rend apart,
Each knot so pure with virtue's touch divine,
Each thread imbued with love's most holy art.
Yet soon its work shall be undone with pain,
When time's cold hand must pull our fabric thin,
When one must stay and one must cross the plain
Where living hands can never touch again.
For Death will cut what love could not untwine -
Yet still my soul keeps weaving threads with thine.

Death's Final Ascent

From that bed you've climbed upon so high,
Where mortal feet were never meant to tread,
Where proud ambition built its towers to the sky,
And scorned the warnings wiser men had said.
No more descend at your own will or whim,
No path remains to bring you safely down,
No hand to catch you when the light grows dim,
No mercy in the heavens or the town.
Death will claim you ere the morning breaks,
His fingers cold around your failing breath,
No wealth, no prayer, no plea your parting makes
Can barter with the night that follows death.
And in his arms your soul must make its bed -
The high and low alike to darkness wed.

Death's Merciful Summons

Come, and follow where I softly tread,
You weary souls whom sorrows persecute,
Who bear life's crushing weight upon your head,
Whose days are bitter and whose nights are brute.
Enough of markets where your sweat is sold,
Of masters cruel and labor without end,
Of empty platters and of hearths grown cold,
Of broken backs that never time can mend.
I'll bring your final, sweet discharge this night -
No more to hunger, no more debts to pay,
No clock to punch by pale dawn's cheerless light,
No chains to bind you to another day.
Lay down your tools and take my proffered hand -
Death grants the peace no living lord had planned.

Reaper's Just Reward

By sweat upon your furrowed, weathered brow,
Through seasons harsh and sun's unyielding glare,
With calloused hands that time could not endow
With rest, nor fortune ever deigned to spare.
You've scraped the earth to earn your crust so thin,
Each meager loaf with bitter toil obtained,
While lords grew fat on harvests of your sin -
The peasant's loss the wealthy ever gained.
Now after lifelong labor's broken vow,
When promised rest was but a fleeting lie,
When age has bent your aching back so low,
And dimmed the fire once bright within your eye.
Death comes at last to free your weary head -
The only lord who gives the workers bread.

Mortal Bloom and Shadow

All men from woman born to pain and strife,
Their infant wails foretelling coming woe,
Each enters bearing sorrow's ancient knife
That cuts as deep as tides of time will flow.
Bowed down with misery's unyielding weight,
Their backs grow bent beneath the years' cruel jest,
Their joys like dew that fades by morning's gate,
Their hopes but playthings of fate's fickle test.
Like flowers brief that bloom but for a day,
Their beauty fragile 'gainst time's harshest breath,
Their colors bright then stolen swift away,
Their stems laid low by winter's hand of death.
Then vanish swift as shades at daylight's call -
Both king and beggar equal in death's thrall.

The Final Reckoning

Before the throne of Judgment high and dread,
Where angels stand with books of iron pen,
Each soul must bow its once-proud, stubborn head,
And face the light no mortal can withstand.
Each soul must render final, truthful sum,
No coin of false excuse accepted there,
No bribe to stay the sentence that must come,
No plea to mask the sins we chose to bear.
Watch therefore through the watches of the night,
Lest sloth or pride should stain your ready hand,
Lest love grow cold and darkness quench your light,
And leave your soul unfit for that far land.
You know not when the Judge shall call your name -
Yet every breath could be that trump of flame.

Death's Wakeful Sentinel

If you would live from sinning wholly free,
Let not temptation sway your steadfast heart,
But walk as one who sees what others flee -
The certain end that comes to every part.
Keep Death's stern image ever in your view,
His shadow stretched across each day's brief light,
That when base pleasures whisper to seduce,
His visage may restore your moral sight.
No troubled sleep shall haunt thy pillow then,
No guilty dreams disturb thy midnight rest,
No specters of misspent deeds come again
To chill thy bones or pound upon thy breast.
When comes at last thy final, fateful night -
Thou'lt meet thy Judge with conscience clear and bright.

Death's Siege Upon Youth's Keep

Youth's strong fortress, proud and tall, doth rise
With walls of flesh that seem to never fade,
Its towers bright beneath unclouded skies,
Its gates untouched by time's relentless blade.
It thinks its garrison secure from harm,
With health as captain, beauty as its guard,
No thought of foes, no call to take alarm,
No watchmen set, no sentries standing hard.
Till Death, more cunning than all mortal foes,
More mighty than the strongest arméd knight,
Through secret tunnels no defender knows,
Creeps silent past each unassuming light.
And casts the dweller from their golden room -
Youth's fallen keep becomes death's hollow tomb.

Death's Final Reckoning

What boots it man to gain with cunning art
The whole world's glittering, hollow, fleeting prize,
To hoard up wealth that plays a cheating part,
While virtue starves before his greedy eyes?
What boots his toil to build a gilded name,
To pile up spoils that moths and rust corrupt,
To chase false fame that ends in empty shame,
While Death stands by with his unerring cup?
If Death shall come and tear his stained heart wide,
Revealing all the blackness hid within,
No gold can bribe the tide he must abide,
No art can mend the wages of his sin.
Beyond all hope, all mending, all employ -
The soul stands naked before eternal joy.

Bacchus' Fatal Draught

With wine (where all excess resides in mirth)
That drowns the sense in golden cups o'erflowed,
Make not thy couch where folly proves thy worth,
Nor let thy pride in drunken halls be showed.
Make not thy drunken bed to keep the night,
Where reason sleeps and chaos takes the helm,
Where shadows dance in guttering candlelight,
And virtue drowns in pleasure's fleeting realm.
Lest Death's cold sleep embrace thee with the tide,
That steals the breath and stills the beating heart,
When blood and soul in crimson streams do slide,
And all thy revels into darkness part.
Then wake, O fool, ere death thy senses steep -
The cup of life runs clearer when not deep.

Vengeance Divine

The ravished woman, broken, weak, and torn,
Her voice a whisper through her bruised despair,
Cries out to heaven with her anguish worn:
"O Lord! They force me to their lustful snare!"
Her tears like bitter rivers flood the ground,
Each drop a testament to stolen grace,
While those who wrought her pain in pride are bound
To meet at last their Judge's stern embrace.
Then Death, by God's own righteous judgment sworn,
Shall stalk the guilty through their halls of mirth,
His fingers chill shall greet them ere the morn,
And squeeze the stolen breath back to the earth.
No gold shall stay his hand, no power defend -
The Lord hath heard, and Death becomes His friend.

Blind Leading the Blind

The blind man leads his blinded brother on,
Their groping hands find nothing but the air,
No light to mark the path that should be gone,
No voice to warn the chasm waiting there.
Together in the pit they tumble deep,
Their hollow wisdom shattered on the stones,
Where shadows laugh at promises they keep,
And mock the pride that led to broken bones.
Just when each thinks to halt in black despair,
When hope's last ember flickers weak and small,
Death comes unseen to seize them unaware -
No mercy in his grip that stops them all.
He hurls them to the grave's unyielding face:
Two fools who chose to walk without a grace.

Death's Treacherous Turn

At crooked Death's dread thoroughfare we meet,
Where shadows twist the posts that mark the lane,
And time's own compass falters in the heat
Of final breaths that rattle like loose chain.
Reason, the driver, loses way and steers
Through mists that coil like serpents 'round the wheel,
His maps now drowned in sudden, panicked tears,
His logic broken on the road's hard keel.
The body's cart and horses, once so fleet,
Now flounder in the ditch of fate's design,
The axle snaps beneath the crushing weight,
The reins hang slack like some forgotten line.
Life's wine-blood spills upon the thirsty dust -
Death drinks his fill, and turns all flesh to rust.

Eternal Longing

Who seeks in Christ to live past crumbling clay,
Though dust to dust this flesh must yet return,
Finds Death but shadows in the light of day -
A fleeting sting, a taper's final burn.
He fears not Death, yet cries in mortal pain:
"Alas! When comes the hand to break this chain?
What angel's touch shall rend this cage apart,
And loose the wings bound to this failing heart?"
The shell resists, though spirit yearns to rise,
Like captive bird that beats against the wire,
Till resurrection dawns with eastern skies,
And Christ Himself fulfills this soul's desire.
"Who'll tear this mortal bondage from my breast?"
The Answer lives - in Him, both death and rest.