Death is a cloud.
A heavy, grey rain cloud.
One that shadows us as it passes.
It sits there, still, until its job is done.
We feel its weight as it hangs above.
We spend each day in its fragile glove.
Death is a cloud that we cannot escape.
One we do not see coming.
It blows in suddenly, disrupting our days,
Until satisfied, light, it blows right away.
But death- is not a happy cloud.
It bears no rainbows or mildew.
It bears memories, anecdotes, moments,
It bears nostalgia for those it fails to strike.
It takes from them a sweetness and warmth,
It takes from them the comfort of love.
For to sustain itself and to blow forth once more,
It must steal with pain and intended gore.
Death is cold. It’s stiff. It’s hard.
It’s that icy chill in my pounding heart.
It’s a touch of realization and loss.
And of unsaid words and of silence.
It’s a numbness, an ache, a relentless ghost,
One that never loses, seizing its unwilling host.
It leaves behind an empty shell,
It leaves behind that characteristic smell.
A gaping hole with no piece that fits,
A trove of memories no one dares visit.
A path filled with anecdotes and smiles,
Now littered with tears and unfair trials.
Death is that hollow shudder in my nerves,
It is the pain for us that nature preserves.
Death is a cloud.
A dirty, hungry cloud.
One that shadows us as it passes.
It sits there, mean, until its job is done.
We feel its blade as it hangs above.
We spend each moment in its cruel glove.
