Death is coming child.
Are you ready?
His pace is meager yet meaningful,
with unfurled wings, dinged, and
mournfully heavy with the lives
he has taken. His scythe rusted
and worn, with his bony fingers
grasping desperately to the gilded
staff. He is waiting for you.
You are the child with alabaster
wings dancing in flight and your
scythe glowing like untouched
monochrome. He's waiting for your
delicate toes to touch the ground
for the first time, your scythe to
whorl above your head, and have
his last wish granted.
He's waiting for you to realize,
you were never meant to be an angel.