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Death is calling to her,
Gently whispering her name,
Coming for her,
Reaching for her hand.

Death's hand is holding hers,
Coaxing her to come along,
Weaving tales of the afterlife,
Whispering sweet promises of nothing.

Death is touching her shoulder,
Icy fingers sliding over skin,
Telling her the pain will be gone,
As long as she's with him.

Death is playing with her hair,
Running it through his fingers,
Lost in the perfume of the living.
As he waits for her decision.

Death is cradling her in his arms,
As she lets out her last true breath,
The world of the living is left behind,
As they disappear into the shadows,
To whatever awaits them after death.