This was written yesterday at work, after having a terrible day dealing with bad work ethics.

My Name? Death


Seething with anger, narrowed eyes
Stare through thee with contempt,
What kind of Hell doest thou think
This is! Little doth thee know,
This is the worst there truly is.
Let me whittle thy bones down
To tiny little points so that
I might gouge out thy eyes
In hatred’s delightful glee.
O’ how I wish to sink this
Glinting blade deep into thy flesh,
Which so calls out to this psychotic
Dream displayed before mine very eyes.
These eyes o’ mine glaze over
As thy blood oozes slowly from
This fresh new wound, this mouth
O’ mine waters as redness flows
So freely from thy skin. Let me drink
Deeply from this wound, so that thy
Death might breathe new life
Into this Reaper’s body. Bathe me in
Newness of life in thy death.
For thy wretched soul, condemned to
Hell eternal, is mine for the taking.
Hate is my name, Death is my face
And it shall be the last thing thy eyes
Will ever see, haunting thee in death.


(c) 2003 A Riddle