Lord Yama

The one who comes again is not the one
to fear. That he returns serves but to show
he will not stay for long. His work is done
by stages, little cuts and tears. You know
him more by the delusion in his passing,
the false relief, as of a toothache dulled
by aspirin, than by the slow amassing
of marks and scars. His legacy, anulled
not even partially by misplaced hope,
kindles a beacon to the one who bides
his time in shadow, watching, as you grope
towards his long embrace. Silent, he slides
a silver cord around you and the glint
of death is beautiful, and cold as flint.

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