When He Comes

He comes not like a thief in the night,
nor descends on flailing bladed wings.
No malice has He toward the fearing soul.
No anger spits from His still, cold lips.
He comes as the gentle whisper of winter wind,
or the quick ecstasy of the lightning bolt
immediate yet lingering as if embraced
by a darkling shadow or a twilight shade.

He is not the wielder of the killing blade.
The River of Death teems not with blood,
nor the tears of selfish grief.
No lost souls are there adrift upon the current,
only lich-lights remain to mark each journey,
silent ripples on the deep, dark waters
that gently kiss indivisible shores.

He is not the barrenness of bones,
nor the stagnance of a winter pool.
He is the fullness of an autumn bouquet
and that which runs rife in the misty bog.
He is the free acceptance of primordial change
where no conditions stem the cycle,
where no tears float like heavy oils
on the surface of such crystal waters.

He is the twilight forever bounded
by the two extremes of day and night.
He is the moment wherein all things do change-
The stoppage of time and elimination of space
between all that was and all that is,
and all that shall be, is a stationary point
that contains all times at once
and all space on a narrow bridge,
where everything culminates in a “winking out”-
A moment of darkness
wherein all reality is contained
and all illusion cast aside.

Death is the dream come to flesh
only to shed the veil of sleep
and reveal the naked form of Truth
reclining peaceably and shaded by Life’s afterglow-

When He comes, all of man’s truths shall shatter.
And the thin icy skin afloat on His waters
shall crack from the weight of a single soul.

Copyright 1997 Leilah Wendell

By Leilah

I run the Westgate, the world's premier source for Necromantic art & literature since 1979. Our specific focus is on personifications and encounters with the Angel of Death and related necromantic practice.