Deaths Grip

• Kylie Scott, Grade 10
• Poetry
• 2014

His face was that of a gruesome
monster in disguise,
and his gripping fingers mangled,
with dark slits for eyes.

Try as I may to run away
he always did catch me,
for none escaped death’s keen grasp
never would I be free.

SNAP! My bone broke in protest,
to his grip as unyielding as hell.
So I limply lugged along behind,
and into the pit we fell.