Press Play Above And Follow Along With The Poem Below.
Angels are painted in colors so bright,
Wings made of wonder, of beauty, of light.
But shadows are cast where the dark angels tread,
Harbingers walking the halls of the dead.
Not robed in gold, nor faces fair,
But cloaked in darkness, cold as the air.
Symbols of midnight, of sorrow and gloom,
They enter unbidden, they visit the room.
Skeleton figures with eyes like coal,
Summoning silence, reclaiming the soul.
No friendly embrace, no gentle cheer,
Their presence brings shivers, whispers of fear.
The “Grim Reaper” name is often bestowed,
On angels of death where shadows have flowed.
Cultures may differ, beliefs are not one,
Some fear their coming, some say it’s begun.
For some it’s transition, a step that’s required,
For others, a terror profoundly inspired.
For death is the end that all must face,
No status or fortune can alter that place.
We fear what we lose, the love torn away,
When angels of death bring night from the day.
Unready to part, we cry and we plead,
Feeling time stolen by their ghostly speed.
Yet comfort may dwell in their solemn embrace,
When illness has wearied a once-smiling face.
For then these dark angels are said to ascend,
To carry the spirit where sufferings end.
With wisdom and age comes a quiet accord,
A sense that their presence might offer reward.
In art and in stories, in games and in lore,
Their figures emerge through eternity’s door.
On screens they are demons who drag souls away,
In blackness and horror, in shadows they stay.
But whether as terror or solace they gleam,
Death angels still walk through humanity’s dream.
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