Army of the Dead

Death is not a cloaked figure 

Or a reaper wielding a scythe.

Death is seeped into our bones

And rattles inside our ribs with every breath.

He lives in the curled up edges of wilting flowers,

And thrives in the bloody rust that tarnishes a childhood bike.

Death is the graveyard of stars-

That a million hopeless wishes are poured into.

Death is the cemetery of our mouths-

That all the unsaid words curl up and die in.

He lives in the twinkle of our eyes,

And the delicious breath in our lungs.

Every taut nerve, every tired skin cell-

Is rotting away, slowly, but inevitable.

And Death, he stands idly by, biding his time,

And sharpening that fatal blade with his tongue.

Waiting patiently for the day that he can recruit us,

And march in his brigade.