The Sweet, Silent Death

 A sudden chill seizes you still,
Breath exhaling as frost;
You grab a blanket, draw it 'round,
And notice the fire has been lost.

Try to stoke the embers, replenish the warmth,
As you furtively glance about,
But a chaotic wind abruptly whisks in
To ensure it remains put-out.

Hesitance, with a trembling voice,
You inquire, 'Is anybody there?',
An abrupt quaking sets your room to shaking,
And gives you an unpleasant scare.

Then before your eyes in a womanly guise
A strange figure doth appear,
Garbed in white clothes, carrying a black rose,
And gradually she begins to draw near.

Your teeth they chatter, your knees they knock,
You reel back in confusion and fright,
But the ghostly apparition retains her ambition,
And extends the fragrant bloom of night.

Shakily you collect it, in fingers clumsily curled,
And give a nervous, but thankful, smile,
Touching the stem, the petals begin to unfold,
Tactile softness drawing you in all the while.

The feeling is enchanting, like an indulgent hug,
And it swallows just your hand at first,
Then it unhurriedly charms the length of both arms,
Desperately attempting to slake its thirst.

The figure just watches, a subtle smirk on her lips,
As the blossom devours you bit-by-bit,
Your brain is lulled, as you are seductively culled,
And there's nothing you can do but submit.

Another head grows on the midnight rose,
This one matching the shade of your hair,
Your body grows weak, you are unable to speak,
And worse, you no longer care.

To the side you slump, a great, fleshy lump,
The essence of your mortality slipping away,
With a final exhalation, the floret's finished with creation,
And the stem begins to magically fray.

Into two parts it splits, before calling it quits,
Each half gently tumbling to the floor,
You flicker to light, fueled with macabre delight
As you reach through the spirit door.

Carefully you grasp the flower of your soul,
Draw it wistfully up to your nose,
But you can smell only absence, feel only madness,
And thus your resentment grows.

The spectre nearby grabs her own bloom to her chest,
toasts you with a smile, and then fades,
Now you are damned, alone and nondescript,
To wander for all of your days.

And so you turn mindlessly to moments like these,
luring others with the scent of your torment,
Bouquets of flowers heaped upon your figurative grave,
With no ability to genuinely repent.

You are the plague, the sweet, silent death,
The ghostly reaper merely doing her duty,
Appealing to sin, to the temptations within,
By concealing your bait in such beauty.