Everyone had seen her gemstone bullets,

but few were privileged with their bite.

The few thought Death was a ghost,

until her fingerprints stained their necks.

The fingerprints oiled the paper

with the messages they threatened to send.

The messages were thin air and ice

and chills overtook her decaying body.

The chills were involuntary back then,

because a plague had weakened her once.

The plague was barely new to her

and she sipped blood like wine.

The blood was that of the few only;

her scythe was no longer able to hesitate.

The scythe was usually a symbol of fear

when she was kind enough to give a warning.

Death herself is shamelessly human

with ideas grand enough to kill a mind.