When Death Pays a Visit

She wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

He was Death itself, and it pained him to bring to life, life's curse.
He came, sickle in hand, a shroud covering his chiselled face
Cursed in life, and conscious only in death
He walked, bringing the end to a close
collecting his dues

But she wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

He walked through the quiet corridors, on a gloomy midday
the skies as if to ascertain his presence
powerful, but a powerless release
He walked, he knew what was to come
A wrinkled hand, maybe, or a bloodied face

But she wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

He reached the room. It smelled of fresh flowers;
Someone had replaced the dying blooms from a fortnight ago
And the remaining rays of the midday glow
cast its gentle eyes on her
Eyes closed, a peaceful smile.

She knew.
She wasn't alone.

He watched, the black folds of his shroud reaching out like streams of tears
They should have cried with
enveloping the creases on the weathered floor
She breathed laboriously, glistening sweat on her temple
As the fresh blooms engulfed the room in a sickly sweet scent

She wasn't afraid of dying,
but dying alone.

And she knew she would never be from then on.
Her Lover has crossed the unending river to take her home
For life has always belonged to death
And memories to the deserving living
They did not deserve it.

She was ready.
She reached out her hand, ready to

Hold the nurse's hand that gripped hers tightly.
"You'll be alright,"
Was a gentle whisper.
Who was it?
Through blurred vision her eyes dreamed beautiful faces from her past

She was ready
And she wasn't alone

Death sat by the bedside,
Black tears raining through plastic veins
Then streaming through scouring membranes
He came, and he went away
Alone.

She was ready,
But We would not let go.