(six) On death

(Inevitably) she ran out of time; flung her hands,
blinking her eyes, calling out to the sky.
An chill-instilling wail, savage and beast-like.
Stone before her holds fast, unmoving, refusing--
to quiver--shaking and trembling,
she lowers her hands, fumbling through the cracks
searching for a lever--any breaking point.
as Death grasps her about the waist,
whispers Calamity in her ear and Escape,
on the other side, where her fingers aren't broken
from jagged, rigid rocks. She can already see it
in her mind; the blood ceases and
her fever runs cold, but in His arms, she falls.

Chaos, often mistaken with anarchy,
and likewise, death, unjustly morbid,
the end to all tragedies,
and one which invokes tears, misunderstanding,
ignites anger, runs cold spells, causes fear
in public hearts who forget to consider
whether we simply struggle by design.