Death Has No Master Poem by David Burton Richardson

Death has no master, but master it will be
And the pale velvet mist of time
Will pull and tear the everlasting Tree
That reaches for the dark and damp ridden Earth
Of moulding, smouldering musk of scent
The Russet wet Black hue of Devils dawn
That betrays the Hangmans rope
That tightens around the Neck of vice
And the muffled Blue and cry of Red
That pulls and plithers of all begot
And leads us all to that place of blackened pale
Where the face of Death will soon prevail
And forsake all that is not Black
The dark chasm of scandalous bribe
Of battered and bitten shadows
Of all that is fallen.