Death has long fingers, they say,
Wrapped around her world
Like cobwebs around flies
And skin around bones.

She has wide eyes, they say,
Watching our world and waiting
Like a dumb lamb, young but too old,
Wondering why you have a knife.

Death knows things, they say,
Like how your mother screamed
And your father cried
How your brother fainted
And your sister stared
At your wrist laying
Among the ****** leaves.