Death is an artist
An ardent painter
With peculiar reverence to his victims
A wistful solitary being
Wanting only to assuage his loneliness
He seeks friends
But we see victims

Death
Makes smiles into a limbo of “what was” and “what’s not”
He is made to look like a weapon.
An abhorrent one
Pulling us into a torrent of regret and affliction without our consent

He is believed to taunt us.
With words left unsaid
With unchecked bucket lists
With unmade phone calls

Death
Most known
For absconding with our loved ones
An obscure kindness
Hidden deep in the corners and crevices of our misunderstood thoughts
Death wanting only
To clean his sullied hands
And make his amends

He is lonely
Just misunderstood
Roaming the streets for a friend
But every flower he touches wilts
And every life he caresses
Perishes