When Death comes knocking
It's best just to let him in
He comes 'round to every door
Both the virtuous and full of sin
When Death comes knocking
No need to weep or rage
Death comes 'round to every door
Regardless your status or age


Do the dead beg and pray to live as the living beg for their own death?
Do they reach out with invisible fingers, trying with every ounce of their nonbeing to exist?
Do they uselessly cry salt-less tears, clutching their loved ones; unfelt, unnoticed?
Do they pound against the unyielding walls, howling out the rage of loss?
Do they cling to shreds of hope that their soundless screaming will be answered?
Do they wander from face to face, searching for the recognition or affirmation that they are still there?
That they're not just crazed specters, nor just the empty dust of being?


Or rather, do they keep quiet watch over those they loved and left behind?
Or perchance, do they find some greater purpose beyond and go without any glances back or doubts or curses?
Or do the dead simply fade out into a dark oblivion from which nothing returns?



I do hope when Death sees fit to visit me, that I may gather my thoughts and ask one favor; To know in my heart the truth before my final breath arrives....