Death, The Silent Collector Poem by Cassaries Johnson

A knife thrust or a gunshot,
a blazing fire or a great fall,
Death will be there, waiting,
Death will be there to take her lot

Death lurks on the battlefield,
at a murder scene, at executions,
She goes where she is needed;
Even if to her we yield

When Death takes you, you go not into light,
You are instead consumed by darkness,
She takes without bias, without thought,
She is dressed in the cloak of night

She is not a cruel mistress
like the torrental sea,
Neither does she seek to ensnare
like the vindictive temptress

We all fear and try to best her,
She cares not if we try,
For those who say, “Death be not proud, ”, ”
assume that she at all has pride

I too, will feel her cold embrace,
I wish to take my final breath
without regrets, but with a trace;
or I wish she strikes like lightning