When Death Spoke
Anonymous
I would rather not be a God.
She whispers,
quietly.
Afraid, ashamed
It is lonely.
And there is an abashed look she gains.
She stares at calloused hands,
ones that ache
upon curved blades
Everything is mine,
Curled upon a lap that isn't hers,
head hung like a guilty child
yet I can never have it.
Gnarled fingers grasping at
a flowing cosmos;
her skirt
Never hold it.
She stares with soulless eyes
Only leave it at Life's doorstep
For Death never truly had a soul
and hope he is kind with it.
Why would she?
She is Death.
These poems were written in random moments, without the intention of ever being shared. It’s frightening to have something you cherish be ridiculed, yet even more so for it to be forgotten. So maybe the author is doing themselves a favour, and maybe they’ll regret it, but they write these poems to be remembered so maybe they can write them to be shared.