Death’s Consort

Death is nothing to fear,

no phantom to flee when shadows grow near.

Even Blue Öyster Cult urged us not to—

*Don’t fear the Reaper,* they sang,

and neither do I.

Instead, I take his hand,

a silken grip cold as dusk,

and we walk through the veil

where whispers breathe life

into the bones of the forgotten.

I am no mere mortal trembling at his feet,

but a weaver of threads in this tapestry of ash and bloom.

The harvester, yes—but not alone.

We share the scythe,

cutting through fields heavy with the weight of endings,

for Death’s blade is a beginning in disguise.

There is no permanence in his embrace.

He carries no finality, no prison of stillness.

Always, he gives way to life’s eager hands,

sowing green where the earth was blackened,

where roots once tangled in decay

now seek the sun.

As one thing is removed,

another rises to take its place,

a tender shoot reaching

through the cold soil of mourning.

The cycle is eternal,

and I see it in the seasons—

how winter’s frost is no death sentence,

but a soft pause,

a whispered promise of spring.

Together, we walk the twilight,

Death and I,

his shadow curling into mine,

our steps silent, deliberate.

He is no tyrant, no cruel master.

I am not his victim, but his equal,

a keeper of his secrets,

a partner in his unspoken song.

And oh, how he dances—

not as a thief of time,

but as a tender waltz through its endless corridors.

His presence is a reminder,

a seduction laced with truth:

all things must pass,

but none are lost.

Life breathes in the hollows of loss,

in the spaces he leaves behind.

And as I walk by his side,

I feel the echo of his touch

not as an ending,

but as a beginning waiting to bloom.

For to love Death

is to love the cycle,

to cherish the fragility of this fleeting, endless dance.

I am Death’s consort,

a lover of the inevitable,

a witness to the beauty of the in-between.