Offer

Is it the knife you fear, or the pain?

Is it the love you dread, or the loss?

Or is it the fear of running in vain;

Is it the voices, or the words they toss?

Have my shoulder, child, weep

Yes, I'm here, I listen, carrion,

I like you hopeful, shy and weak

I'm not your end, but your companion

The books and pictures paint me thorough,

Swimming in flesh - a hungry worm,                          

But shut your eyes, let your thoughts follow.

Isn't the dark oh so quiet and warm?

Few enter my feared damp lands

Out of their own lust for peace.

Although I shake no trembling hands,

I am but a host, not thief

I do not take, but I am given

Is it Death, or the living you fear?

Yes, you might not be forgiven

But would that be so new to hear?

I forever wait, I'm patient

You can start cleaning your mess

Put my dinner on the table,

For I will come nevertheless.

Need not weep, need not wither

There is no need to miss this world

Do not falter, do not slither

They’ve forgotten how to mourn

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Image: Self-portrait with Death Playing the Fiddle by Arnold Böcklin