She Is Death

She never speaks of it out loud,

But carries it like a storm-soaked shroud –

The quiet, clawing certainty

That she is Death, unwillingly.

Each name a ghost, each wound a mar,

She counts them not in years, but scars –

Worn deep beneath her sleeves and skin,

To try and keep the rot within.

She never visits graves – she knows

Her presence only stirs the crows,

Her hug, a curse – her kiss, the key,

That unlocks the gate to tragedy.

Their souls pass by like rosary beads,

Slipping through her fingers, frail with grief.

She calls them softly, one by one,

And grieves the lives that come undone.

She murmurs prayers to gods she doubts,

While all she loves is hollowed out –

And what if all this grief and gore

Was never a chance, but something more?

She knows her breath, though soft and warm

Is just the calm before their storm –

Her shadow long and stretched and thin,

Is Death, just draped in mortal skin.