Is Death truly as cold
to consume the bold,
to place your fate
within its froe?

Its chilliness espoused
as merely cat and mouse;
but rather a hand that guides
and gently provides?

Could death not embrace,
show thy face, and reach out:
warmth taking its place?

Does Death hide,
not from pride,
covering its face,
hiding beauty in divide?

Holding my hand,
I turn the key.
Away the cover falls.
Now I clearly see.

Not a man or land
can one be.
But rather in all—
forever and free.

So when Death calls:
don’t fear the fall.
Take my hand—
and stand in awe.