If death were a fairy,
her dust would be poison.
Nectar of sorrow
would flow through her veins.

Her voice sounds so sweet,
like the song of a sparrow.
It draws you in closer,
and comforts the pain.

We can't grasp her beauty-
for no moral has seen,
her amythest eyes
or her cobwebbed wings.

Her lips are pure scarlet,
like a bow under her nose.
Her hair is black satin,
how long it does flow.

Even the moon's jealous
of her beauty it seems-
pale white skin,
like freshly milked cream.

For death is this fairy-
this little nymph with wings.
She sends you to slumber,
When softly she sings.
©dhoward