I reached out to fast, racing towards an internal light,
It was the night before Christmas..... Wait wait wait, no one cares for that old fable now do they? Let us tell a new story to celebrate the evening before.
The reddish glow pushed through the darkened clouds. The warnings echoing through the radio station, "Dust storm due to hit Sydney today, some towns lack visibility beyond a metre in front."
There is death inside of me,
a cruel stench that overwhelms,
there is no escape from the darkness I see,
no way to guide this ship by its helm.
Another writer falls to their death,
a silent bow is taken, by those who notice,
many pass through unaware of those who wept,
focused on their own writing bliss.
You could see she was lonely,
no one wanted to spend time with her,
it wasn't that she was nasty, at times,
but her breath could chill the warmest of hearts.
My heart has been tattoed,
Not like that of the ones on my skin,
The words, written are not to be viewed,
They show my demise like the French would say, fin.
O Death, I can feel you close to me,
I know you are near,
I can feel the hairs on my neck stand
if only I had a deeper vision you would be who I see.