08 :: death, my poor darling.

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by dunmanneubfu

by dunmanneubfu

DEATH is wounded, tired—

the only living souls it's seen are those of the criers.

The skin it touched, cold and clammy—

peeled away from it even though dead.

The loneliness in its mind, the sadness in its head.

Death suffers even as its self,

for everyone fears death—

leaving no-one to help.

Yet death couldn't be afraid,

for it had to claim everyone in its way.

Rather, everyone fears death—

they hate death too.

But stupid of the humans that they don't realize,

death just does the job it was told to.

Angry at death, blame it for the pain—

sobs won't help, because they suffer still the same.

But should we be grateful, for what death has done?

It's saved some from anguish,

extinguished the lonesome.

Even when we're alone,

one day it comes to visit.

Or maybe it visits many sites,

for some, death is a companion of old time.

Wrapped in gold, a silken flesh—

death has never touched warm skin as it longs.

Never felt the warmth of the living,

only the stillness of the gone.

Everyone runs away from death,

and damage it does.

For death is lonely,

sad, and in need of love.

— 𝑀.