Death does not grimace at the wails of first breath.
He offers a smile as the warmth of life embraces you
through the arms of your mother.
Though he whispers no harm
your mother’s vehement clutch to you, he finds justifiable.
They sever his vocal chords with sweet lullabies—
to drown out the value of life,
he may murmur into your untrained ears.
They recite rumors of his ominous chase
and lace your feet with running shoes to prepare.
The unrest of his unknown—
tars the synthetic societal roads upon which you must run.
Uneasy are they of his cold touch on their shoulders
that they don thick coats of indifference and intolerance
tailored from the sinless.
Tense from their fallacy of his torrid, unforgiving gaze,
they shy away beneath the umbrella of their credence.
They erase the wisdom he etched into the side of mountains
with a landslide of their own self-importance.
Anxious are they of being caught—
they skip quickly past the peace
he carries for the sick, tired, and suffering
to sprint into the malleable dome
of another’s delusion.
Death will weep
when the veil of nihilism
encrusts the corners of your eyes.
Your bones have begun to brittle,
and your soles have worn.
Only then will your angst
melt into acceptance.
The deceitful herdsman will collect his riches,
he will proudly present his sheep
anticipating his prestige to buy him a penance of mercy.
But Death cares not
if man litters green by the tips of his toes.
Nor does Death hold bias
for the moral noncombatant
whose tongue would lay
captious fault to fellow men,
but whose feet remained rooted
to their own hope of exemption.
Death the feared, Death the misunderstood
does not chase—
but waits patiently. Silently.
The wails of first breath
and the warmth of life
frequents the dreams of those
who have grown weary of running
and have found solace for their aching souls
in the comfort of death beds.
It is then—
between clean linen and regrets
that you will weigh judgment upon yourself.
And as the salt of tears of joy or rue
coat your tongue,
you will reach out to the corner of the room
and his hands will reach for you—
impartial to the chase all those years ago.
And with his cold touch of consolation,
He guides you home.
Adia Smith began writing short stories for her sisters as a child, crafting makeshift books with illustrations and tales they loved. Growing up in Jamaica, a culture rich in storytelling, Adia was naturally drawn to writing, encouraged by her mother. She enjoys creating stories about strong female characters and hopes readers find the same joy in her work that she does in writing it.
Featured image by Isaac Wendland on Unsplash.
