They say it comes on silent wings, Not with a scream, but hush of things— A breath held soft, a final sigh, Like starlight folding into sky.
No clocks to tick, no roads to climb, No weight of thought, no press of time. The hands that shook, the eyes that wept Are soothed at last—forever kept.
Not falling fast, nor sinking deep, But drifting toward the best of sleep. Where dreams don’t end in waking’s ache, And none return for sorrow’s sake.
No nightmares stalk in corners there, Just velvet dark and quiet air. No name is called, no duty pressed, Just rest—unbroken, endless rest.
And if you ask, “Is that not loss?” Recall: all life must bear its cross. But when the body’s fire has burned, There’s grace in sleep that won’t be turned.
So grieve not sharp when curtains fall— For death, though feared, may sweetly call, Not cruel or cold, no soul to reap, But kind, The best kind—blessed sleep.
submitted by /u/Inevitable-Darkness
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