Death, incarnate

"This was his gift, his prize, and his burden to behold . . ."


1. Death, incarnate



His words were whispered lace,

He left without a trace,

Became a voice in the wind,

Became a thing to be sinned,

Feared by a population,

That had no information.

Took a wife,

Outlived her life,

Took a husband,

Left after his end.


He walked alone through the ages,

Witnessed dying slaves in cages,

Trod through the carnage of wars,

Pitied humans and their flaws,

Lived in dust and shadows,

Conversed with the unhallowed,

Watched pestilence and plagues sweep lands,

Took the dying by their hands;

He was immune to their illness,

He welcomed the eccentric and the less

Fortunate into his dark home.

He had been told he was demon,

By all cultures and religions,

But he ignored their words and the spits in his face,

Because he knew in secret that they all had a place,

In his own private household haunted by ghosts,

Where long corridors echoed the cries of their hosts;

So he smiled and took the segregation,

And the discrimination,

Since he was more than all mortals could ever be,

And he knew that their gods were powerless to he.

He loved those who saw him,

For what he was,

The men and the women of the world.

But alas he never learnt,

That when they left,

It left him burnt,

Left him scarred and his heart dim.

So he took to wandering alone again,

Though he was what he was he couldn’t take the pain,

Lived alone from the humans that he couldn’t be with,

And had been a recluse sith.

He challenged and placed bets,

Was the true champion of Russian Roulette,

He smoked and got drunk and cackled at the misguided humans

Who called themselves revered and perfect.

He scowled at a society full of hatred and the one that shamed

Those who did not fit the conventions;

He held disdain for the society that did not understand,

That they were blinded by media into thinking all was fine,

That there was equality and no pain that cut like knives,

That hate crimes weren’t a problem because they did not affect their lives.

But in time it didn’t matter,

Because like the rest that society went,

And the people who had hated became his to torment,

Through history he knew all the moves for torture,

And history had shaped him into a monster.

As others died he carried on,

But he had no choice;

This was his gift,

His prize,

And his burden to behold:

He was the being that incarcerates,

He was Death, incarnate.

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