New poem...

This one is still in progress, but I figured I'd post it before it's eaten by my failing hard drive.

Parades of people go with wares to hawk
Slow-ambling through their lives to ply their trades
To unsuspecting folks whose years upbraid.
With every tick and tock, to death they walk.

En masse, without recourse they form a flock
To hide themselves from surreptitious raids.
In all the faces who will not stop pervades
The overwhelming fear of Sable Frock.

But Death, implacable, his sable coach
That wanders not from predetermined path,
That unsought end for endless flights of wrath,

That mans the place to which all lots are cast
That guards the dark that all must find at last,
Where death but waits and lists to man's encroach.

I'm poetted out for the night. I do have some puns to share though.

I'll reply to your post next time, Sarah. I just wanted to get this down before, as stated, it vanishes to insipid prose. ;-)