Death is mysterious than God himself.
He comes uncalled for
He enters homes uninvited.
And leaves with all the joy that was once theirs.
In a moment he empties hearts,
Draws tears and offers chaos.
Melancholy is his mistress
And he shares her with all.
He hates the sound of laughter
and the curving of lips.
Humbles the proud; make the heartless feel.
It is strange he never appears to those who call.
Beg, yell and plead.
He seems ignorant.
Love, laugh and live.
He feels invited.
Some homes, he loves to enter over and over.
Until their joy is gone forever.
P.S: Angered over the death of my grandmother. Can't hate Death any lesser than I do right now.
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