Her name breeds fear,

But she’s quite gentle.

Some long for her touch,

And she makes others mental.

Many avoid her

For as long as they can,

Only to regress

Into a madman.

Maybe she takes lives,

Some quickly, some slowly,

Because of the fact

That she’s always been lonely.

She does not have a scythe.

She does not have a blade.

Her hands are soft and warm,

So why am I still afraid?

Death

She haunts me.

Is that ironic,

Or just a tragedy?