A Poem by The Senile Pianist

A man from the era of the Renaissance who is faced with the black plague, and shakes hands with the devil.


When death comes knocking on my door, I’m not going like Steven;

Or Conrad Builder, Bishop Francis, Al or Bobby even.

‘Cause I have a little problem with being under town;

Claustrophobic tendencies have kept me above ground.


And I don’t want to sit at hell’s god-damned living room table,

Playing cards with Death and all his friends.

I’d rather be the last one on earth, with spare time on my hands,

Than down there as a slave with all the rest.


So I played my cards with cleverness; I stocked up all I had,

As my family all around me fell to death’s outreaching hand.

To bury them would be my end; I let them die alone;

Instead I fled, seeking north, frost clinging to my shaking bones.


The priests I met along the road were flagellants hell-bent on self-harm.

I let them dare " why would I care? " to kill their own comrades in arms.

As stocks ran low, I chose to go down east to find a home,

I hopped a ship, and rode a horse ‘til I’d reached the fabled Rome.


It seemed the plague had not spread here, and relief I felt that night.

I’d finally escaped from my adversary; Death and his ultimate plight

Or so I’d thought, yet as I slept, the kingdom had been cursed;

I woke to find a dying town of sickened men or worse.


He’d followed me, the devil had; his intentions were now clear;

He planned to force me to be buried prematurely as I’d feared.

I wasn’t going without a fight; I’d stocked up all I could,

Little did I know that mankind was to destroy me for good.


A man burst through the threshold, the sickness in his eyes;

He clung to me, unrelenting with his pitiful inhuman cries.

In horror I now realized how much the plague had spread,

With a sinking heart I calculated that by noon tomorrow I’d be dead.


But I don’t want to sit at hell’s god-damned living room table,

Eating with the Angel De La Mort.

I’d rather be the last one on earth, farming on my empty land,

Than pleading innocent in his biased hellish court.


But by noon the Reaper came, the sickle in his hands.

We met at last, as my gaze fast upon my wrathful foe.

He motioned for me to follow him; he did not understand

That I simply could not let myself go.

© 2010 The Senile Pianist

Author's Note

The Senile Pianist
This poem was inspired by a song entitled "Death will Never Conquer" by Coldplay, and "Death and All His Friends", also by Coldplay.

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Added on June 7, 2010
Last Updated on June 7, 2010
Tags: Devil, Death, Reaper, Black Plague


The Senile Pianist
The Senile Pianist

I'm an excellent writer, cool, absolutely amazing, exuberant, fantastic, wonderful, and an accomplished pianist. I also suffer from low self esteem. more..