Death Itself

My forceful fellow works miracles,
Offering to mankind a display of his work,
The work of kindness, the work of greatness.

My forces abstain from destruction until light
Has entered darkness, so faraway.
Little smells waft to the top of the room
As we search for another miracle - a candle
Or lamp.

This gas chamber chaotically displays
Death, as a realm of gold and light,
All of the money is taken,
All the gold and light is snatched 
From my eyes, and existence
Is small, too tiny an affair
That the gases of death preside -
They smell of obnoxious death itself!

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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