Dear Death

Death is freeing MWC Death

Image by Milos Duskic from Pixabay

An old author, made feeble by the hardships of life, lay on his death bed. His hair was a mess, a little greasy, like he had his hand through it all night. He moved his hand over the blanket, back and forth and buried his face in the pillow. On his arms and legs, hands and feet his flesh was black and dried, clinging to the bone so tightly that the bone might just burst through. It looked like death…