One sunny Sunday
Death came to my smithy
In his shroud of black
Trailing a shadow, like blood
Spilt on the butcher’s floor
Your time has come.
Said Death
What say you?
I am not ready, Ancient One.
So say they all.
One sunny Sunday
Death came to my smithy
In his shroud of black
Trailing a shadow, like blood
Spilt on the butcher’s floor
Your time has come.
Said Death
What say you?
I am not ready, Ancient One.
So say they all.
This post is a response to Ermilia Blog’s weekly Picture it & Write! challenge. The blog mistresses provide an image (this week’s is to the right). You write a very short story or poem using the…