Is Death a release?
Or a welcoming home?
Is the spectre seen with the scythe,
Really a monster?
Or is he in his own way,
Trying to welcome us with open arms?
Are we too blind to see the truth?
That Death is simply waiting for a gift,
Sent from his lover Life,
Separated from him by a spiritual expanse.
And we are merely sent to keep him company,
Until she eventually,
In the end of days,
Crosses herself.