Death.

White is the kiss of winter’s breath,
Pale and frail in hues of death.

Black is the scent of foul decay,
Rotten infested bury all away.

A morbid soul a mental cage,
A tormented mind lost and disengaged.

Exhausted by the fickle finger of fate,
In her sleep the angel of death waits.

Round and round a carousel,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
Say a prayer, come what must.

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