HER

Is there warmth in death's arms? Does she have a heart? Is there peace in her house or is it pitch black?  Do her eyes hold life in every gaze she strikes? And relief with every stroke of her hands? Does she grieve with the rest of the world her work of art? Why does it actually calm my heart to think of her as a gentle one? A gentle one intertwined with time, with seconds running through her veins as blood and in her gentle calloused hands the fire of the stars. A gentle one working with mother nature hand in hand, both ushers to different worlds. A gentle one who dishes out plates of rest in all sizes and manner. Maybe she's a gentle one who actually loves. A gentle one who patiently watches over her child, waiting for her time to come to nurture and usher into the other world.