Death waits. But, first develops a rapport with you. letting you believe in immortal fancies. entertaining the idea of living again. in the flesh. Alas, Death can stand no more of your duplicity. of your undying hypocrisy. Then, lights out. No life, for you.
They say my black is not pretty as if my hair is not the color of the night that holds the moon in all her silvery glory as if dark doesn't heal the wounds of an oppressive Sun as if my eyes aren't deep enough to capture a kaliedoscope of colors as if my skin doesn't glow luminescent soft enough to inspire you to sleep to dream up another world with my wings an opulent black like a mirror reflecting the whole wide world.
These are my crone days made my way towards a sweeter death I can always feel his chill kiss my dark skin tried to shed my youth unhurried I peeled off all the layers that were remnants of a falsity that didn't serve me I'm almost at the core finding out the old pain doesn't live here anymore
Getting old is a good thing. No worries just freedom and God.