Death whose rancid lacquer doth taste the same;
from screeching owl death calls our names.
Death with pummeled torrent and skeletal hands,
upon our hearts brings sorrow’s command.
He cries from the dark, with crow like form
scratching and pecking with malice and scorn.
Death whose face greets all with glee,
whose only purpose it seems to be;
not to maim, to rend, or tear, but to destroy, to eliminate and to kill;
Death seems to offers opposition of what we think it means to heal.
But who is Death’s master, creator, and who is Death’s will?
This is a small representation of the high-quality writings you’ll find in every issue of TIFERET.
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