Death, the ultimate figure

Commonly dressed in black

With chains around him, clanking

And a scythe behind his back

A set of bones for his body,

Empty sockets for his eyes

Unseen feet gliding smoothly

Skeletal fingers holds the knife

Yet he is not the lord

That controls who’s fate

He is merely a symbol

Of those that passed into

The realm of the dead

The real person, however,

Is not actually there

But a presence in everyone,

Known as the Brother of Death

Life itself, the spirit, the entity

That fuels the will to live

But when that fuel runs out,

Life ceases to exist.

Without death, there cannot be life,

As one enters the paradox

Where all pain does not end

And age keeps growing on

But without life, there cannot be death, either

As there would be nothing to kill

One cannot co-exist without the other

And thus the duo was born