by Gwendolyn Armstrong
Death has made me a bed of lilies,
Soft to rest my head,
Death has reached his hand to hold me,
And with his ring we wed.
Death has never been untrue,
His reason always pure,
His path an ever winding road,
That led straight to my door.
Life has often come to greet him,
Beat him with disdain,
But Life is weak and fights no longer
For Death will always reign.
White Noise Zine 