Death, My Child

poem by H. Duncan

Is Death as a cloaked figure who harrows the very soul?
Or is Death an infant?
I think the latter

He must suck the milk of life from the bosom of man
Feed on the love, the memories, the tears
Without our being He would cease to exist

So fear not Death as you lay ill
Croaking your final words
Take Death in your feeble arms
And nurse him with your final breath