You are stingless and cannot make a corpse
but glory in the ailling bane men bid
their hearts abide. Who fears you even or mid
the art of the thought? Whose hand can you shake
but intrudes while life desolated, fights
to suffer. Silly how you exercise
the odds then. The pining bale, I previse,
of whom you are slily left in exchange
might be humble and selfless, serving your
table and so, overthrown. Grievous how
you sieze all deference and irking, cow
all way. But let me tell you, Death, men still
are high-born. Tis the Demiurge who gave
you; to send them down the way of the clay
that must not come to pass with life. Their sway
thus accursed to the dregs and refuse was.
Can you before the eyes, stab any front
or betide masterless? Prove your sinew
and mark the ground their grave and waterloo.
Yet, men kill you, Death. You are but strengthless.
Faeo 'Lyre' Clive
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/let-me-tell-you-death/
