I don't think death is a hard man to look at.
Not a scary scythe carrying grim reaper
wearing a dark robe reeking of fallen ashes and freshly dug dirt
right now, he will look like an angel
bright and with a long gown ever flowing
whispering in my ear
sweet Beverly, it's time to come home
and I will dive into his arms
like a child who has missed her father.
Because he is sweet welcoming to me
like potato salad and fried chicken
that my mom made especially for me
to welcome me home
after a long trip on the road.
Right now, he is sweet and kind
kissing me on my forehead
And relieving me of my last breath
Because I was too tired to do so. Too worn to even fill my lungs. Too weary to even think about the inhaling and exhaling the in and out
of peaks and valleys
He is my sweet dreams of what others called nightmares
of monstrous boogeyman's and unhopeful futures.
Sweet song that I hear my last breath that I breathe
sweet Beverly, it's time to go home
and in one sweep, I am in his arms
Carried by effortless strength that so desired me to be his engagement for the night
A long list of welcoming that for other's that will be endings
to me, a long time coming
and I am his, as he Is mine
the sweetness of the kiss of death
it has been a long fight.