These Cold Hands

These Cold Hands

I've heard a tale,

Of a fountain of hope.

It's waters restore,

What we have lost.

Never have I,

Looked for its grace.

-

Please, sir Death,

Wait, to reap me.

Spare me, spare me,

Thy ode of demise,

He, prepares his song.

-

I grow old, and cold, cold hands,

Grasp and claw at my being.

Please sir Death,

Wait, to reap me.

Harbinger of all,

He waits for his yield.

-

This fountain of hope,

May it grace me with youth.

He conducts,

As his agents do play,

His, foul, ode.

-

I search, and search,

And have yet, to find it.

The Fountain of Life.

May its waters, grace me.

I grow older, still.

These cold, cold, hands.

-

He has yet to show mercy,

My soul is an ember,

For him to snuffle out.

I search beyond,

To the edges of time,

There do I find a strange spire.

-

Please, sir Death,

Wait, to reap me.

Spare me, spare me,

Thy ode of demise.

He, prepares his song.

-

This spire contains,

The strangest of things,

A stone, a hole bored in its core.

From this pit, this endless cavern,

Waters that shine in the sun.

I raise my hands,

To grasp this cure.

-

Please, sir Death,

Wait, to reap me.

Spare me, spare me,

Thy ode of demise.

He, prepares his song.

-

With a dying breath,

I lower my hands.

I sip from the glory of God.

My soul is ablaze,

The ember restored.

My being is intact,

Sir Death, I laugh.

-

It wasn't I,

Who had the last laugh,

Sir Death had been waiting,

Planning my doom.

He wanted me dead,

But I rebelled and said,

"Please, show mercy,

I've ventured so far!"

-

He shook his head,

Or so I saw.

He raised his hand,

His scythe, of shadows,

Appeared at his very whim.

With one final movement,

He pierced my being,

He harvested the ash of my soul.

-

To this, I warn thee,

Accept your fate.

Sir Death is waiting.

Oh, young boy,

Don't tempt Death.

-

Sir Death is waiting.​

-

Accreditation

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• Written by MiningToBedrock_.
• Processed by MonMarty.