POETRY | SCRITTURA
The Angel Of Death
Exploring Ekphrasis
Deep within these catacombs
monks once held secret, sacred rites
over the dead — their bleached bones
consecrated then stacked in rows
with skulls turned into altars, skeletal hands
clutched ancient candles — dripped wax
clung to cobbled stone floors
— the stench of death still lingers here
Now the way forward is lit — stark
effervescent light blocks out the shadows
but not the echoed voices of chanting —
songs to and for the long forgotten dead
whose names and status never adorned
these ancient walls, bricks stained blood red—
Yet, their presence is still felt here
as is the harbinger of death himself
Stay on the path, we are warned
do not stray down unlit corridors
but the curious never listen — do they?
When the guides turn their backs
I turn down a darkened path — shivers
creep up my spine, settle in my bones
and there before me, barely visible
shrouded in blackened wings — Azrael
