What
frightens
Death
more than
The All of life?

A weapon
fit to challenge
even sharper
edges of her
scythe.

It is The Poet’s
trusty quill..
The One
by which
he writes
to live..
and lives
to die.

What is so
frightening
about this
hollowed out,
and yet
still flaming,
phoenix feather?
It only cost The Poet
his immortal soul
in bargains with
The Devil.

Its might,
however,
does not lie
in what it is..
but rather in
the truths
it writes.

With Poet’s
blood as ink,
it incarnates
The Perished
through The Word
back into life.
So that still living
dutifully may
observe..
their own
behind.

Indeed:
“That is not dead
which can eternal lie..
and with strange aeons
even Death may die.”