Death is not equal nor is it fair.
Its deep depression hugs your skin so tight till the warmth of your blood blisters within inside.
The hands of tar holds your wrist,
melting you to the gritty bones.
You can't help but to fall into a transparent universe.
Your eyes are glossy all over, and your breath is cold to the temp.
You have dark circles beneath your eyes.
Hate to say it,
but you're dead.
Just relax and pretend you're another dimension,
playing jump-rope around the corner.  
Your whole body is hallow,
the ground is forever infinite.
Where is your mind right now?
I don't know.
Death doesn't do much.
We give death work, it pays us with great fortune.
Just let go.
Let yourself fall into the arms of death.
Everything you see now is bleak, draft,
nothing.
Be the sweet rooted demotic demon person you are.
Death doesn't mind.
You look to see if the clock has struck twelve,
but it hasn't.
All because of death.
Death doesn't make its move until you drop the silver spoon.
It watches you from up above.
Watch you bleed from the neck,
or weakened at the heart.
You can pursue any way to go.
Death will do.
Stop running the 100 mile race just to chase away the horrors of death.
It will come to you when you least expect it.