I'm back on the dark side today with the poem for National Poetry Month, Day 16...
The thrash of angel wings grows near
Can you hear, can you hear?
Your coursing heart, the beat yet strums
But death it comes, your death it comes
The angels beckon, they gather high
Still you lie, still you lie
Your final chance, will you confess?
Or shall my knife be your last caress?
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved