My dear friend, Death, comes strolling through. Some turn away. Some run. They attempt to distance themselves from her like a bullet from a gun. As if their effort might change the rules, as if this were some game; as if the truth about her quest were avoidable, all the same. She watches, still, her welcome, ready, if only we submit to her holy, loving arms:
our fleshy, meaty bits.
She cares little
for the sentiments
of mortality.
For her, the focus
is the soul;
like a river flowing
to the sea.
She whispers of love,
to those who can
hear her welcoming plans.
She brings relief
to those in distress.
She cradles their being
in her hands.
Death, she arrives, so specific,
to gather her charge.
People's expectations
may show
in the state of her regard.
But even for those
who harbor no faith
she holds out, still, her hand,
to let them know
they are welcomed home;
to escort them
beyond Earth's demands.
In a moment she sweeps
the dust from our soul,
welcoming us more fully.
If only the living
could comprehend
darling Death;
she is no bully.
For energy pulses,
with or without
this meatsuit we call our lives.
It vibrates, as always,
it continues, it grows,
beyond concepts of demise.
Yes, Death is my darling,
my companion, my friend.
She is steadfast;
she facilitates change.
She helps us, each soul,
like new butterflies unfold;
she helps energy
to rearrange.
~Spellbinding Sherry
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