Death, you are not as swift as the legends say.
Your plagues, your instant kill, your murders and death of age are not as they seem.
You know this but people like me can see your weakness; your follies.
What flaws you have.
The perfect design people live by: Birth. Life. Death.
Three words cannot amount to that somewhere in the between; the inevitable called life.
Nothing and no one, Death that's you, can ever take away what we have seen, what we have dream, and what we are.
You soul reaver. Even in death there is life. Death, this is your ultimate flaw. Everything still lives on. so after the curtain has been drawn, the casket closed, we live through what you attempt to call this absolute despair of the end.
We have left the ground and learned to fly to this outwardly world. It could be heaven or hell. It could be the reincarnation of a soul. It could be the be the memories in which we live.
To fathom what you think of as the end is an inexcusable act which lays waste to the depths of the weak minded, willed, and tormented. Say what you will death, but I see through your veil of mist conjured through sorrow.
Life is like a cycle in which everything comes around in full fruition. So death, is there a beginning or an end to a circle; this everlasting cycle?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.