It reminisces on its early age

When death was life and life was death

When brutally massacring Life was “not so bad…”

When it still felt obliged to its inherent obligation

It bathes in sorrow soaps

Sulks in cream colored ashes

Snuggles with it’s dear old buddies

Down, and  underground. 

It meditates in the umbrage of a weeping willow 

Remembering His plan –  His desires, His suffers – 

The plan; the one and only plan. 

It’s Inevitable.

It realizes that its sins are no longer repentable.

It bleeds out its griefs,

Turning the tears of sorrow into tears of blood– 

Dried up blood that can’t be cleaned and stains the world

But, the priest is fed to death.

He is done. 

Death is doomed. 

It feels remorse. 

It awaits,

Feasting it’s bloodshot eyes on The Door

The same door that it awaited victims to knock on

So it could do its deed

Well, this time, The Door awaits Death

It prepares to relieve Death of Death’s ways

To reward Death's commitment to humanity

It did to Death what Death did best

Death died

(but don't worry, every Death has a replacement)