Death is not as frightening as one might assume.
His black eyes filled with sadness,
Sunk into his face like pebbles into the lake
His sharp features creased with lines
His body covered in scars as if they were arrows,
Pointing to places nobody
Death’s bony hands hold what little innocence this world has left
His skin hangs off his bones like extra weight
His scars reminders of their words
Death is pale,
Covered in Creases, lines,
That Create textures like broken glass,
Across his immortal skin.
He has glassy gold eyes,
Like sparks of a flame.
Hiding in the shadows,
clouds of darkness incase his shattered heart
The more that I think about it,
The more I realize,
Death looks just like