Writers 
Death is not the opposite of life, but it's a quiet seam
Just like a thief he sneaks in quietly
Too silent to be noticed.
He does not slam the door,
he learns the shape of your house first.
The chair you always leave empty,
the cup you drink from.
He doesn't arrive,
He's already waiting
sitting in the marrow of your bones
on the day you were born,
patient as a second shadow.
He is not cruel,
only thorough.
He folds the clothes you wore
like a mother after a long trip.
We think death steals,
but mostly, he returns...
returns us to the soil that lent us,
to the stories that will keep our names warm
long after our mouths forget how to say them.
He watches you collect
titles, wounds, lovers, feelings, debts and emotions,
and lets you believe they are yours.
Then one night,
without asking,
it opens your hands.
And whatever you were holding too tightly
stays.
Whatever you held lightly....a kindness you gave when no one saw,
a truth you told when it cost you,
He lets you take it with you.
Death is not a punishment,
It is an audit and it's inevitable!
