Death Pities
Oh fair without yet pitch within
Beauties outer cover hides the rot.
The skin pale so soft to touch, is ice.
The eyes deep, hold no warmth.
The rosy lips carmen red, smile
But it never reaches the soul.
For that you have sold too cheaply.
You are all for outward show, sick,
An empty vessel that holds no joy.
Your honeyed words cloy and poison
Corrupt the air and blacken the rose.
Death pities but cannot touch,
For you are already dead.
poem by Paul Brookes
Added by Poetry Lover
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