death is cold.
its the snow on the ground in the winter;
the darkness of a moonless night.
its the chill creeping up your back,
around your shoulders.
its the whisper that you hear in the wind,
or the shadow you see around the corner.
death is the burn of fire
on your bare, vulnerable skin.
death is crying his name in the dark,
convulsing, shaking, seething.
death is driving past that horrid place
at midnight;
thinking of drowning in the dark sea.
death is the warmth you feel
at your back when you feel nothing at all.
its the ghost that you miss.
its the voice that you can't hear anymore.
death is permanent.
death is....
free.