It’s not a foreign concept.
It lingers in every breath we take and every second that slips through our fingers.
Yet it’s remains cloaked in silence,
Whispered in hushed tones, dressed in black, avoided like a curse.
But why?
Why do we treat death with such disdain
when it’s one of the few truths the earth doesn’t lie about.
They say “the cold hands of death”
But what if… death’s grip is warm?
What if it’s not a thief in the night
But a mother gathering her child after a long, exhausting day?
©Laurel Aiko
@yourpenship
