Death is a dear friend of mine,

He and I have met on many occasions.

I knocked quietly at his door and no matter the hour he always answered for me.

I never stayed too long, though in deaths home there is much peace and tranquility.

He poured me a cup of tea and patted the chair next to him offering me a seat.

He looked tired and worn from perhaps many years of constant visitor, though he never complained.

He looked me up and down and shook his head, sternly saying “It’s still not your time my dear.”

However I liked it here, time seemed to stand still and nothing held much weight.

He passed no judgement and told no lies, listening to the words I left unspoken.

“It is lonely here.” He stated, looking about his dark lite room.

Many visitors came and went but none stayed long, what a sad feeling to acquire for death my dearest friend.

He wiped the tears of my sodden heart and just as I was exiting he looked into my eyes and lightly touched my face saying sternly, “Don’t come back here of your own prevail again.”

With that the door clicked shut and like the bolt of lightening I was pulled back into a world where time meant everything.