Death and all his Friends

Complex and varied are the myriad tales of the creature we call Death. Discover forthwith a collection of such tales - short stories and poems concerning both death and Death.

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5. My Swordhand is Singing

My fingers are icy,
My eardrums are ringing,
But my eyes are as bold
As the blade I am gripping;
I care not for the cold,
When my swordhand is singing.

I smell blood on the wind,
Around me it's whipping,
From the blizzard they rise,
From tree to tree flitting;
I care not how they fly,
When my swordhand is singing.

With their black as ink eyes,
Red lips always licking,
Like pebbles from slingshots,
Deceit always springing;
I care not for their lies,
When my swordhand is singing.

Their bodies build a wall,
Dead beasts made for killing,
I can't take them all, with
My silver sword swinging;
And I know I must fall,
But I'm going down singing.

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A/N This poem was heavily inspired by Marcus Sedgewick's brilliant novel, 'My Swordhand is Singing', a vampire novel set in 17th century Romania, which I thoroughly recommend.

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