I am the forbearing message of death,

The harvester of life,

A master of insignificant strife.


Why do you run?

Why do you hide?

Are my remarks about life and liberty so hypocritical,

So snide?

Why is it that you fear me?

Is it merely because I am dead,

I am death?

Or is it truthfully my cold eyes,

Those glowing blue pits?

Their starry expanses alight with the music,

That dreadful humming of those things after this life?

I do believe that is why,

After all,

That is me.


It is I,

The one you fear.

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