Angel of Death by my Bedside (a poem)

The angel of death sits by my bedside
I stare into the vacuum of her eyes
I know for sure I’m being exiled
And she’s waiting for my demise

She comes to visit once a month
Brings me a bouquet of dead flowers
She always looks so stunned
That I’m awake at such late hours

She removes her mask to reveal
A face that is hideous and pure
These moments feel so unreal
I no longer feel secure

The angel of death sits by my bedside
And really, it’s not such a bad thing
She forever has me in her sights
It’s my blood she wishes to drink

(Photo by Julia Kadel on Unsplash)


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