Charles M. Moore - Death

Death what hated thing you are
forever you have ridden far
you stinking bag of rotting pus
that fills your belly at the trough
you enemy of given birth
that hides in shadows of no worth
your hand prepared to take the throat
of mighty king or lowly roach

Death you are the bastard son
that makes pain walk
and helps plague run
defiler of all things anew
on land or sea you'll take your due
wishing to destroy all love
waiting to take all above
for everything under the sun
you ache for all and miss out none.

Charles M. Moore

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-23/