Death Is Neither For Him Nor Her
It is for the old and starving
they know its foul breath
for lines of earth and clouds stirring:
It is the anger of their god within,
they are stirs of twisted fires swirling
And for the poor bastards screaming,
Or for tainted whisperers
Who’s souls, so befallen
haunted by the world’s fake healers
Death marches on in screaming banter
tricking mortals with false hope
That God, without a glimmer
Would think one or the other
Be worth saving, perhaps, even slimmer
Tell you that another might be leading you
Into salvation, even when another is killed
Only for it’s namesake?
Then tell this God, whoever he may lay
That you will not drift into that dark lake.
Death is for no one, it preaches nothing
At least, it’s honest, and true to it’s name
Unlike the Preacher, condemning his lesser
Death is neither angel nor demon
It is not worth forgetting, nor saving
When it reaches for the hand of your love
Ask yourself its why’s and wherefore’s
and keep its mysteries within your heart
Youth does not forsake death, yet it still
Relinquishes its place among time.
Death is neither for him nor her
Nor a solemn guild for horror
It is of us, as humans, we are
What death makes of us
Even if we mistake it as God
Or the will of the heavens.
It is not what we see of it
Nor what we think of it
But what may enlighten it
and that we know, what it is not.