Going Home

 The Angel of Death moves quietly,

through a world that hums with life,
its wings dark as the void between stars.
No fanfare, no grand arrival—
just the hush of time folding in on itself.

Mortals hold tight to their fragile days,
clutching at moments like scattered leaves.
Life seems long until it isn't.
We are the keepers of time,
until time lets us go.

The Angel comes without sound or fury,
with hands that cradle more than they take.
No need for fear, no need for fight—
just the closing of a chapter,
the soft end of a song.

Flesh and bone, so easily worn,
carry us until they can’t.
And when the Angel arrives,
it is not a thief,
but a guide home.

We fear death,
yet we carry it with us,
in every breath we exhale,
in every heartbeat, a reminder—
live while the flame still dances.

For in the quiet, the Angel waits,
not as an end,
but as a hand
that leads us gently into the dark,
and beyond.



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