Many Faces

A poem about the inevitable visitor, Death

Hiding in the ditches
In the gulleys by the roadways
On slick highways and quiet sidestreets
- He waits and he watches
As skidding cars collide with that
sickening crunch
He is the spectre...

Concealed in the shadows
In the alleys, in the doorjambs
Of the ghettos in the cities
- He waits and he watches
A beating, a stabbing, a gunshot
occurs
He is the ghost...

Lurking in the E.R.
In the doorways, in the corridors
In cold sterile hospitals
- He waits and he watches
As the monitors beat out their
final cadence
He is the phantom...

Camouflaged in the foxholes
In the trenches, in the bombshells
On the battlefields of war
- He waits and he watches
As skirmishes tally the toll
of his charges
He is the messenger...

Cloak of black, concealing
Dark robe, unrevealing
Bony fingers reaching, pointing
guiding the way
- He waits and he watches
He knows where to go , what to do,
Whom to seek
He is the angel...
Of Death