John F. McCullagh
The Angel Of Death - Poem by John F. McCullagh
An Angel without pity,
No conscience ridden whore,
She haunts the field of battle.
She’s seen the cost of war.
In the faces of the dying
She’s reflected in their eyes.
She coming to collect their souls,
Not listen to their sighs.
She clearly fascinates them
As they gurgle blood and die.
They find her mesmerizing
Like the hunting cobra’s eyes.
To the dying she‘s a beauty
unlike any seen before.
Still they’d rather be in Paris,
Smoking Gitaines with some whore.
Comments about The Angel Of Death by John F. McCullagh
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye