Him

His cold embrace is craved,

By the poor, the rich

 The One who seems the happiest

 The one who can’t seem to stop crying

 The one who is numb

 The one too angry to care

The one whose face says all that they hear

The one who hides in their shells.

Craved by everyone, received to fortunate some

His services have now entice all

They do not wait for Him any longer-

For man can’t think themselves so incompetent

As to wait for a black coat and a scythe.

They take it upon themselves,

Make the blade- the scythe

And as the blood flows, above he smiles

He doesn't care, he never did

Forced in a tedious process of endings

He carves destruction

He despises men.

What for? He knows not

He doesn't want to either

Maybe it's his nature, or maybe it's his wish

Whichever it is

He enjoys blood and tears

He laughs over the tear stains and the scars.

He loves maniacs

For they have made his service easier

Choosing their own endings 

They disappear

Never knowing what Life set for them

They seek Him

He enjoys them, pities them even,

For their stupidity knows no bound

He wants endings but not half endings

 Giving Endings are his rights

Men can't take them.

They never shall

Their half endings are just a ending to them

Not to him. 

Who is it? You ask

It’s Death himself.