Death and I have never been friends,
Nor have we been foes.
The look in its eyes does not show of terror,
But of pain and sorrow.
He has grown tired of the countless wars,
The agony of taking children before they're time.
Life has shown him so much beauty that he cannot touch.
For it will wither beneath his rough touch,
But he will watch it blossom from her hands.
The astounding white rose before it was soaked in blood,
If only he could smooth away the thorns that have pricked such caring hands.
Death is tired of being feared,
He wishes not to take your loved ones.
He wishes not to hurt you,
He wishes for a way to explain that this was not his choice.
It simply had to be this way.
Souls are meant to be reborn, and some aren't meant to return.
The eyes of Life have only hurt him worse,
For Death cannot love but little does this remain true.
But when he sees the creations that Life has made he cannot help but fall for her over and over again.
So maybe Death is not a friend nor is he foe.
Death is just my misunderstood acquaintance.