In the shadows of one’s mind he lurks.
Plotting, scheming, and manipulating are what he enjoys.
He takes pride in his work; tearing friendships asunder,
planting treachery in allied hearts.
Simple tasks for one so vile
for one who has brought even lovers to their end.
Amidst turmoil, blood, and tears,
You will see this fiend and you will see…
Tis a teacher,
Of things thou should’st be weary of,
Things that show thine blood to thee.
Tis the destroyer,
Breaking thine body, cleaving flesh or bone;
Perhaps shattering thine heart with loss
Or unfulfilled love
Nothing thou can stop,
For tis part of our lives.
Thou shall never know peace
If thou should’st run,
Thou shalt become,
Thine own destroyer.
Death is a collector.
To many, a devil who takes our loved ones.
He takes those young, he takes those old.
He cares not of age, as he steps into your home;
He is the collector and you are his debt.
Death is release,
A liberator of the soul from its cage of flesh and bone.
To those who suffer, who linger, he is an angel,
who takes them, from this world of pain into Paradise.
Death is neither good, nor is he evil.
He feels neither pride nor joy, in his ghastly work.
For he merely plays one part upon this stage,
Among us all as we move through life.
© Copyright 2016 Runefaust. All rights reserved.
Short Story / Other
Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
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