Here is something of an unfinished thought I’ve explored in troubled verse.
Death, in his black outfit stalked me:
Whispering softly a song,
following all summer long,
Th’specter tonight has appeared.
Death, by my side sitting with me,
grins he in grim gaiety.
Knowing what fortune may be,
grinning, the face I return.
Together we smile all night.
Wondering, when is the morn
—who for an idiot mourns?—
can a new day bring me life?
Tale Told 