Death

A dark shroud, a scythe, putrid stench of decay. It creeps on us, insidiously drawing us in to its fatal embrace. We run, we scramble, we beg for mercy, but what do we see? A pallid countenance, empty sockets, rotting flesh and the vast void staring back at us.

We struggle against the creature's vice like grip, it tightens. We train all of our strength, our intelligence towards fighting it, flailing desperately, attempting to fend it off. But to no avail. We call upon divine intervention, no one answers. We wail, we shout, but no one hears us. The creature, devoid of expression, continues to draw us deeper and deeper into the vast emptiness.

Eventually, our strength fades, our will broken. Hope deserts us, fluttering off to find a more conducive perch. Our flailing stops, and then... Silence. No more thumping in our hearts, no more screaming out in trepidition, no more cacophanic jumble of memories of a life gone by, nothing left but an eternal silence.

Would we then find peace? Would we then realise how mistaken we were to have struggled against Death? Would we then realise that perhaps we should accept this inevitible calmly and stoically?