These Cold Hands

The Forms of Life

Author: Unknown

Genre: Poetry

Accessibility: Common Knowledge

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.