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.


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.


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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