The wink of the moon is a forgiving description,
The locks of your hair, brittle and worn,
Every tomb you forebear has a decaying inscription,
Your empty touch can drive even the most stoic to mourn.

Unconsidered by nature, but naturally torn,
The weight you must bear is never applied,
Vengeful at your mention, and your destruction they've sworn,
With the strength of cyanide, but your effects shall never subside.

You keep your fair distance,
Through your eyes you see no favorite,
Sickness plagues all at your mere insistence,
You're a people watcher, a natural behaviorist.

I can't avoid or dismiss you my love,
But Death, my fair maiden, there's not an hour you go undreamed of.