“It is Death which consoles men, alas, and keeps them alive.”
— The Death of the Poor, Charles Baudelaire
when the discordant music of late-night
drops its deep-pitch
i speak to Death, sitting in her unavailing
darkness, filled with wreaths&dreams,
her crown shattered by the treachery
of man. singular and silent, she sits,
letting time discontinue itself
before settling in.
this night, i cannot see her.
knowing that she is, is enough.
© Anmol Arora
(Inter)National Poetry Month
Linking it up with Poems in April ~ Late night conversations with the muse at WRT