1 min readJun 25, 2020
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Poetry Story
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“Death”
His name is death,
He is carrying a wreath.
Long ago, we have met,
Between oppositional set.
His faceless face stuck in my head,
And his eyes seems read.
An odd color, as he was covered with all black
And he always appeared behind my back.
A lovely news he did proclaim,
A soul exchange to a flesh he can domain.
And so he offered, “I am willing to pay.”
Just let me borrow, your soul for a day.
Death was a friend and so trust was given.
I thought our kind of love was something even.
Yet I found love and missed heaven.
Death didn’t came back after eleven.
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(C) M. E. Flores
