Death

 

Death comes dressed in quiet rot,

A patient thief that can’t be bought.

It counts our breaths; it knows our name,

It waits for weakness; waits for flame.

It seeps through cracks we swear are sealed,

No prayer can stop what’s been revealed.

It leans in close; it learns our fears,

It feeds on time; it drinks our years.

It takes the warmth; it leaves the cold,

It strips the young; it humbles the old.

It drags its fingers through the past,

Reminds us nothing here can last.

We bargain in the dead of night,

We curse the dark; we beg the light.

We promise change; we promise truth,

Just give us back their stolen youth.

But death does not negotiate,

It doesn’t pause; it doesn’t wait.

It turns the lock; it shuts the door,

And leaves us wrecked upon the floor.

Grief blooms black inside the chest,

A living thing that never rests.

It gnaws at hope; it dulls the mind,

It warps our sense of space and time.

The world moves on—cruel; unaware,

While we are frozen in despair.

The sun still rises, wrong and bright,

Mocking our own deep and endless night.

Yet in the ruin, something stays,

A ghost of love, a stubborn blaze.

It hurts to hold; it hurts to keep,

A wound that bleeds even in sleep.

For death may claim the breath; the bone,

But never what we’ve deeply known.

Love dies slower than the flesh,

It haunts us raw; it haunts us fresh.

So, we carry death the rest our days,

In subtle scars; in quiet ways.

Not healed, not whole, but still alive,

Gripping tight, we learn to survive.

©️ Wonderland Wanderess 2026