His Name Was Death

They say his name was Death.
Was it a he or a she?
Does it even matter to me?

He wears a black cloak like the skies.
When the stars shine and suffice.
He holds a scythe he uses well.

To reap souls into the peaceful wishing well.
He takes souls to Heaven and Hell.
Maybe even limbo.

And he takes good care of them well.
They say he is evil.
Others say he is kind.

Some say he is medieval.
But I personally don’t mind.
Death is a face we all know.

Even if the image isn’t whole.
A black cloak and a scythe.
We would all recognize that well.

As it casts a wishing spell.
When he comes to reap your soul.
You will no longer feel foul.

Just peace,sweet release.
And he’ll bring your soul to a better place.
No matter your skintone or race.

Death is as kind as can be.
As long as you treat him equally.
His black cloak smells of death or even rot.

Holding a dying flower in a pot.
One day,he’ll come for me,I’m sure.
But untill then,I’ll try to live in peace.

And find my missing puzzle piece.
He reaps souls ,day by day.
He never gets tired all the way.

It’s his job aferall,to maintain the peace.
And offer sweet,peaceful release.
He’s seen so many lives.

And so many starry nights.
Some call him scary.
Of which he is wary.

He reaped so many lives.
And been through so many painful nights.
Sometimes,when he is sad and worry.

He stays under the moonlight to recharge.
The moon doesn’t mind.
Some have called him evil.

But you can’t help it.
We all die at the end of the day.
He makes sure we peacefully pass away.

Perhaps we’ll meet in the afterlife where is peace.
And much needed sweet release.
Day by day,piece by piece.