Death’s Wings

They say Death rides in on great wings of jet black feathers, but I have known different.
I have heard the soft steps of her pale feet displacing the rocks on the gravel walkway to my door.
I have felt her slim fingers caress my shoulders like a lover might, but she is so cold I could not feel as though I had ever been loved at all.
I have witnessed the blackened grace with which she effortlessly moves across a room.
And she had no wings on her.
She did not fly down to my rooftop and slowly sink into my dried up lawn.
She did not drag great feathers over my front steps or across the white living room carpet.
She did not have to hold them away from knocking my furniture.
She stepped lightly over my soft area rug and moved boastfully between my chairs with the utmost elegance in her body.
She danced carelessly in my kitchen and held my hands in hers because she could, and she knew in my shock I would not think to stop her.
When she arrived at the soul, she wept with catastrophic sobs, and when she lifted me in her arms she whispered sweet songs of warriors and lovers.
Never once did she ask me where it hurt, for she knew every pinpoint immediately.
Yes, Death has no wings on her.
She never needed such hindrances in her beloved work.