Death, at last, has come to claim me.

He stands there, dark and foreboding,

Black hood drawn over a face that I have come to fear.

To hate.

He pulls down the hood,

Wearing my face as if it were a trophy.

“Do not be afraid,” He says, a soft smile shifting over his face— my face.

The joy showed, the peace filling the corners of my hollow eyes and empty cheeks.

Could it be so easy?

His hand reaches for me, the room suddenly feeling light,

As if all the troubles in the world were solved.

With nothing left to do, nowhere to run,

I have no choice but to take his hand.

As his fingers wrap around mine, warm and inviting, I step closer.

He pulls me close, holding me like a sacred child.

I will never forget how peaceful, how calm,

How sincere he was.

He took my pain, shouldering my burdens as if they were no more than feathers.

And using those feathers, the troubles of myself and so many others, he pulled me away to a place made of clouds.

On the wings of Death, all my woes lifted,

Dying, the ferryman showed me, feels a lot like flying without the fear of falling