In the arms of death,

Possibilities are as clear as a starless night.

Space’s dark enough to start something fresh.

Time’s long enough to stitch melodies, tones and crests

Tears are never-ending, hydrating the soil that was long time dried.

Evil talks, like poetry, circling around.

Half of the body’s buried to the ground.

Pinch of hope is fear-eliciting.

Small dot of light turns to line then figure.

May enhance or absorb all sorts of vigour.

Life or death can not be predicted.

In the arms of death, the enemy.