Death runs its fingers through soft blackened hair
disguised as the wind, it tugs with no care.
Its caresses as gentle as a lover's hands
yet its ghostly chill bellies its plans.
I danced with death one autumn eve
my only warning, the sharp tug of the breeze.
To tango with such a ghastly foe
left my face and my side suffering many a blow.
Its skeletal fingers scrape along my spine
warning me cruelly of my great enemy; time.
As even if I danced this dance
of surviving the others I had little chance.
Nightime falls and the dance wears on
when morning wakes, death's still not gone.
Pale fingers claw at my vulnerable throat
the whistling wind smothering my last hope.
A figure by my side does lay
and in my ear I hear it say;
be still my friend and foe alike
impending darkness you must no longer fight.
And gently the dance begins to slow
as death hands out its final blow.
Suddenly the wind doth still
and death embraces its newest kill.