Soothsaying Necromancer

Seeing shades of death wash over, all around are touched by its dank feathers
Rancid, the smell of rotting death, swooners'd sooner fair better than be necromancer;
Yet none there is who has escaped this fiend called death whom some refer to as friend.
Bitterer the war that hope loses glimmer, graces chase the strayed shimmer,
Seeking always to keeping that radiance nearer, not even creaking, to allow the steeping gradient
To wear dictator's clothes, or those of emperor, for though hope hastens close,
Never does death run scared from, leaving some intended freed forever.

Aye that I were the necromancer, the living, walking necromancer, the walker and talker
Among the dead, but also communing with the living: if I were the necromancer
Those who've passed and those to pass and those passing would all find a bridge;
One worth crossing over, under or above, spanning both sky and earth,
And connecting heaven and hell for all to be as it is meant to be,
Connected and interconnected, not disconnected.

Could it be that the shades of death were every rainbow ever colored,
Every cloud ever floated, every rain ever rained, every sunray ever shined;
Could it be that all those colors, shapes, sensations and lights would uncover
Realities of life, answers about life or reasons for life, a proverbial gold-filled pot,
Pandora's miseries rebuked to let the jar-stifled hope out in bright sunspots;
Then it'd be we'd all rejoice, as ailments and suffering vanished.

Aye, here in this light, in this midnight irradiance, in this luminescence,
Moon drenching the subterraneanic nightscape—
Here is a space akin to that peace place,
That place of calm where love infuses,
Where the light is the love and the love is all of life—
There, beneath a golden, hovering, harvest moon,
Shall the transformation unveil another prophet hero
Aspiring not for platitudes, meek and full of gratitude
For station and chance, predicting futures only the dead know.

-- by Scott Michael Potter