This poem was inspired by a snippit of information I heard at a lecture I attended about Norwegian history. Apparently during the Black Death it was commonly believed that the waves of people who died were caused by a powerful witch. When she used her rake, most died but some survived. When she used her broom, no one survived. Thought it was a very interesting image. Enjoy!
Moral: Death is arbitrary.
She uses her rake on us,
To sweep
Our mortality in a rustle
In one
Motion, with the grime.
The broom goes thus:
All souls go to sleep,
No light, no muscle.
She spares none,
Some of the time.
Unpublished Material, ©2011 Cali Digre
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