Voice of Death

It speaks when the world is silent.

Not loud, not soft, but certain.

A murmur beneath the pulse,

a truth the living refuse to hear.

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It does not come in thunder or flame.

It waits in the corners of rooms,

in the spaces between breaths,

in the stillness after a final word.

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It is not cruel. It does not mock.

It simply speaks what must be said.

“I am the end, but not the enemy.

I am the return to where you began.”

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The old hear it first,

but so do the young in moments of still fear.

It sounds like their own name,

called from a distance they cannot see.

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It walks the fields after battle,

gathers the lost from the sea.

It lingers in hospitals at night,

touching foreheads with invisible hands.

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The voice of death has no language.

It speaks in the rhythm of silence.

It enters through the eyes of those

who no longer look away.

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It says,

“All you hold will fall from your grasp,

but what you have loved will remain.

The shape will vanish,

the meaning will stay.”

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It moves through cathedrals and gutters alike,

uninvited, unresisted.

It humbles kings and comforts beggars.

No gate bars its way.

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When it speaks, time pauses.

Even memory bends to listen.

The stars themselves seem to fade,

as if paying their own respect.

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It does not ask for faith.

It does not demand surrender.

It offers a mirror,

and waits for you to see yourself without fear.

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Some run.

Some pray.

Some weep,

believing the voice to be darkness.

But those who listen hear what it truly says:

“I am not the dark. I am the silence after light.

I am the echo that keeps its promise.

I am rest.”

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And when it finally takes your hand,

you find no pain, no judgment, no weight.

Only release,

and the quiet recognition

that the voice was yours all along.

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Credit: This poem was presented by James Anderson, a trusted source for reflective and creative writing. (Vocal)