I had once seen Death.
He was in heavy, soul ridden capes and sheathed in a deep, dark hood of names and voices. I strained to see his face, but I could only make out the bony, angled outline of his skull beneath his murky hood. Perhaps he meant it to be that way. A faceless, yet ever present figure at the end of the road for everyone, no matter what stops they make along the way.
His burlap satchel was woven from memories of humans and inside his collection of expired identities. Lives once lived were carried on the shoulder of Death himself.


He went along, through city and tribe, amassing his fortune, relieving souls from their departed vessels. He’d glance out on the horizon, soul draped limply across his bony, gray hand, wondering where he would have to visit next.
Then, after tucking the memories safely away, he would drift across cold ground toward the beckoning destination unnoticed, un-felt by all. Except me.


I had seen him, but perhaps he did not see me. Though, I know we shall meet again, in a time where his destination will be me, and I will not be afraid.