Death,
He surrounds us.
He swallows us whole.
He consumes.
He is always there,
ever watching,
always waiting.
He is waiting,
for the moment,
to release us from this,
and take us to his realm

And we try.
We try so hard to
escape his cold hands.
We attempt to flee from the inevitable.
But we will always come back,
whence we came.

Perhaps our view is twisted.
Maybe turned round by fear.
Could Death be warm and welcoming?
Could he stand with open arms?
Perhaps death is not forever,
but temperary.
In the ever going,
ever twisting
road called life.