Death has become a close friend of mine,
He visits on any unexpected day;
He travels through rain but mostly sunshine
And over invites his unwelcomed stay.

I’ve seen His place before,
the space He settles to sleep.
Obituaries hang on rotting, wooden doors
and through the ceiling, blood may seep.

His cellar is the brightest room;
tombstones and rats galore,
it’s hard to walk through the kitchen
when corpses possess the floor

Dozens of graves lurk above ground
in the stench of aging air,
company tends to not stick around
and neighbors avoid it there

As opposed to shiny shoes and silky clothes,
within the walk-in closets lay
rattling teeth and scattered bones;
skeletons have grown comfortable with their stay

Death naps in the deepest, darkest room,
closes his eyes beside a burning fire at night,
sings himself sweet lullabies of gloom
to sooth his constant war with Life

As I drive down His forsaken street,
I steer away from the infamous house,
but something gravitates me to feel complete,
comfort in blackness and a luring mouse

Death is forever the friend I will never lack
He knows it is Him I will infinitely need
the day I find eternal rest & fail to come back
Life will abandon Her most tiresome seed.