Death Is Immortal

Death Is Immortal short poem

Uploaded by Hildburg Mpuka

hide me in these walls…
shield me even,
try your best to cloak me from it..

but it won’t work.

death is coming.
death is coming at a pace we do not know…whether slowly or quickly it will reach its destination. Picking them up one by one..

you can try to keep me hidden away…just so that the devil doesn’t try to fasten its pace but sadly it might be wondering right inside these walls…following me…right behind me..

in this world we are merely visitors…death is the pathway to where you belong…instead of living to avoid death…live like a tourist in a foreign more…laugh more…embrace every moment..

because in this life nothing is certain, in fact, the only thing certain is DEATH…

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of

Death At My Threshold

Death At My Threshold prose poem

“What is it that makes you flabbergasted, my dear mortal? This isn’t for the first time you’ve been throttled by the fear of demise” says the death angel while ripping apart my bones. “Why am I still remain, to you,

Gifted Death

Gifted Death short poem

Sometimes you want to shut the book and bring out the darkness from bleached words of a lonely march of the tree. How to think or not to think drinking the wine of pain? Baby, do not go into the

Death- The Culmination Of Life

Death  The Culmination Of Life sonnet poems

What would happen on the day When death tinkers in your life This thought might recoil once It turns a ‘men’ into ‘corpse’ I soliloquy kith will pretending of regret by flowing false tears Several examine you by discussing your

Death Of A Shadow

Death Of A Shadow short poem

This life has snubbed the bloom like a thick brown sac thrown on the sod. An octogenarian tries to slice the hope indulgingly to achieve immortality! Was it a virile snarl? A rose bud wrenched open in a fatherless home.

The Angel Of Death

The Angel Of Death short poem

She sits there looking so cold and alone But somewhere under there, There beats a heart Beneath all the black and chrome The smooth lines that glimmer Soft but sharp in the night Are begging you to play the game