A View of Death

I am the Angel of Death.

Well,

really I am just Death;

the angel part was not my idea.

I wear a long black robe,

My scythe stands tall by my side

and I do have feathered wings

but they weren’t my choice.

Maybe that is why they think I’m an angel?

But I am no angel.

I am not a warrior of good,

I do not fight evil

nor am I anything but neutral.

The dying call to me,

their voices a melodic whisper

Oh how I pity their weak songs,

it is music to my ears.

My bones have begun to show

I have the face of a corpse

with an eye hanging out

and my brain exposed.

Some view me in awe

others see me in fear,

yet others are relieved

to see me so near.

As if they could escape me.

I am Death

a collector of the dead

gifted with forbidden knowledge.

I am Death

but I am not dead,

not yet.