Alms

How can I fear you, Death, if
you're just a thing that hungers?

Some threat indeed, you
wretched force of poverty!
How can I fault you for being desirous
when I want things too?

Poor Death; I can only pity a creature
who scavenges for discarded scraps of light,
and dread becomes compassion for one
who must anguish for every single breath.

I can never know your awful craving--
your hands of ash cupped to receive,

but for you, sweet Death,
I'd pluck out my heart--
still beating in its crimson bloom
in exchange for all your riches.

Published at Wordlust : Paperfetish November 18, 2005