Death holds the living in an unyielding grasp, An irony when they stand on opposing sides. Yet an unchangeable fact, undisputable and steadfast. Beware, he plays no favorites here, No matter how youthful or robust, All tremble in fear when he arrives.
He bears no pity, Not for those who still dream of life, Nor for those who tremble in fear Escape from his grasp is futile, So tally your days and offer your prayers, In unwavering readiness for his arrival.
Do not struggle, for it alters naught, Only amplifies your pain and despair. For he embodies despair and ruin, When he could have been solace and delight. With his allies who embrace his arrival, He may occasionally manifest with grandeur, Yet typically, he comes in silence, a mere whisper.
To the living, He may arrive in the blink of an eye, Or over the stretch of years, slow and sly, Heightening the fear he imparts. His might forever expanding, All dread him, some even revere him, For this is the dominion that death wields....
I was thinking about death one day (I think about it a lot actually) and was wondering why we as humans are so afraid of it. I mean we have a long history of the desperate choices people made due to this fear from sacrificing young virgins (Elizabeth Bathory) to the lesser evil [I guess?] of drinking gold (Diane de Poitiers). And like the Renaissance philosopher Montaigne said “death has us by the scruff of the neck at every moment” a truth I tried to write about in this poem. Then I thought towards the existing idea, could death perhaps be a continuation of life?
What do you guys think?
Continuation of life..
Something entirely different?
A whole different tangent.
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