Death takes no shape
No form
As he steals away into the night
His bag full of bones
So light yet so heavy
The hollowed souls of boys and girls
The guilt upon his shoulders
That makes him waste
Wasted
Waist
Curved, slighted
Soft but dead.
Death takes no shape
But should he choose one
It would be a bird
Free, and wise
Without the weight of his loves
Her lovers
Their children and family
And pets
And every once living breathing beating seething soul
Without the weight of the dead
That constricts his chest until he knows he shall combust
Until he cannot breathe
Choking, drowning
Asphyxiation taking hold
Babes that never grow old
The pain of thieving a life
Is the pain that death carries
As he slips in through the back door.
The window she left open just a crack
The unlocked side door
Death falls apart each time
Falling to the ground
Before standing up
And taking another life.
For that is the trouble
Of a living
Breathing
Loving soul
Tasked with the impossible
Named with pain.
O death takes no shape nor form
But should he choose one
It would be a final breath
A tear gliding down a cheek
For death knows that is the essence
Of life
Rain drops
Tear drops
Wind
Breath
The very things that connect many to the world
Are the same things that tear Death apart at night
They are not only the binding
The instrument of life
But the first signs of decay.
Should Death choose a form
It would be a laugh
Because that is the most alive
That Death could ever feel.
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