Death; the dealer

of the final deck of life.

No hidden agendas,

just a cold slate to wipe.


With hand and sword

or rock and stone,

with shaft sailing deadly

through grey skies, alone.


The smarter the weapon,

the reaper delights

at a fulsome harvest

of terror and cries.


They split the atom

and split the odds,

they split the proceeds

but never the cost.


Thus, to tally the tariff

of brave men as they fall

amidst carnage and corruption,

he watches as they crawl.


The dealer doesn’t care

be they are friend or foe.

To fall is to die,

to die cold and slow.


The spear of destiny;

fate beckons us all,

just watch as they flock

like lambs to the call.


The colours fly high,

just watch them dance,

yet few will go home

save the cruel whim of chance.


Heartbroken mothers,

bereft, hear them cry

and beseech with empty hearts,

for they can’t understand why?


No love can protect them,

no arms keep them warm,

no power over the tyrants

who promise them such harm.


Like the pull of the tide

over seas vast and wide,

there’s nowhere to run,

there’s nowhere to hide.


The cards are now dealt

in such futile designs

and only deaths dealer

can decipher the signs.



Written by Darren Scanlon, May 2013.

Revised on 4th July 2015.

© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.


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