The Hand of Death grips me,
It's icy hold,
Peaceful, sweet.

The sweet voice,
Beckoning me,
Cajoling me,
The Hand of Death pulls me into the light.

The clinging grasps,
The searching fingers,
They pull me back,
Establishing an everlasting game of tug-of-war.
They don't understand,
They need to let me go.
It's for the best.

I'm straining for peace,
Straining for love,
But staying for them.
Why?
I honestly don't know..