Death, Be Proud

Death, like a bird, sits over our heads
Perching patiently, claws bared
Waiting for its chance to swoop down
And snatch us away to bring to its nest.

Death, like fog and mist surrounds us,
Suffocates us with affliction,
Blinds us from the world until time,
The Greatest Killer, mends our broken souls.

Death, like a catalyst, transforms our lives
Into those we cannot recognize.
It erases our past and future and present
And yet it never changes, never fazes.

Death, like a monster, feeds off of our grief.
It enjoys the game and the consequences of woe.
It chuckles at our tears and our cries.
It's a heartless kidnapper.

Perhaps Death should be proud after all.