"You can't see the eyes of the demon, until him come callin"

When the Shadow of Death comes searching,

I hope it does not knock

for its arrival needs no introduction.

Let it seep in like mist through the cracks,

a quiet, inevitable presence,

heavy and vast, yet unspoken.

I imagine it comes shrouded in shadows,

its form shifting, uncertain

a thousand faces I’ve never seen,

yet somehow, I know them all.

Its voice, neither kind nor cruel,

is the wind through hollow trees,

softly saying,

“Your time is done. Come now.”

Fear will grip me first,

as its cold hand brushes mine.

I’ll tremble before its ancient power,

an uninvited guest I cannot refuse.

My breath will falter,

my heart a drumbeat of protest,

but death will not be hurried,

nor will it pause.

It will lead me through the corridors of my memories,

the laughter and the tears,

the victories and the losses,

each step echoing louder than the last.

I will want to run, to resist,

but its grip will be firm,

its presence is undeniable.

“Do you see?” it might ask,

as the moments of my life collapse

into fragile fragments of light.

“You were never meant to stay.

Your story has been written,

its ink dried long ago.”

And yet, I hope death is not unkind.

I hope it bows its head with reverence,

acknowledging the weight of my journey,

the scars I earned,

the battles I fought,

the love I gave and lost.

I hope it kneels beside me,

its hollow frame not of menace,

but of understanding,

saying,

“You carried it all as best you could.

Now, let it go.”

When the fear fades,

I hope death becomes a guide,

its shadow melting into light.

I’ll follow where it leads

through valleys of silence,

over rivers of stars,

into a horizon where the pain of life

dissolves into the vastness of forever.

And there, at the edge of eternity,

I hope death whispers one final promise:

“Here, there are no wounds.

Here, there is no weight.

Here, there is only peace.”

Jacob M