death - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Death is the gateway to rebirth, and at someone beloved passes through, we both mourn and celebrate. We fee their loss in our life and community, yet we celebrate all that they achieved in their lifetime for goodness, for love, for the natural world, for humanity. It is a time when we are most aware of how sacred living is and to appreciate the gift all the more.
Mourn not the passing of a life well lived, yet celebrate. Count the times your souls smiled together, reached out so invisibly yet tangibly and touched. Death is only the end of a chapter, my friend. And so as this body makes ready to return to the soil, my spirit will watch over you and live in your heart. It will bring sadness as we transform to this new way of connecting, yet this is part of living.
Death wasn't kind. Isabel knew that. It snatched where it could, taking people who were far too young, far too good. It didn't pretend to care, it didn't pretend to distinguish.
The hooded vale of death had hung over the world for a long time, always threatening. It had never touched Isabel quite so close. Death had ripped away a part of her, the part of her that was most loved.
Now Isabel would sit staring for hours. Her face sunken and haunted, her mind cold and empty. The more the years went on, the more her town seemed to become like her. Many were snatched away, and those that were left would wish it was them. The world had gone cold, because of the plague that was death, and war.
He held me with cold caress. A face I was taught to despise, hate, and fear brought me comfort. I didn't fear him. I feared not knowing, what he might do and where he might take me. He causes no pain, beyond what life provides. He is not greedy, he is not rude, or rough. He merely carries me, my burning soul to a cool rest, where I lay benumbed of the greed, rudeness, and hatred of the living world.
I awoke to find myself not in my cozy bed, or even in the protection of my house. I awoke to find myself in another world, a world of suffering. As the numbness of sleep slowly faded from my limbs I felt dead grass poking into back, like tiny needles. I opened my eyes and gasped in a breath, but nothing came and I choked on my own dry tongue. There was no air in this menacing world; lack of oxygen descended on my mind in a panic, in desperation I sucked in another breath, burning my lungs with a ferocity that consumed me. Mist descended on my eyes. Through the misty veil surrounding my eyes I could barely make out dead white trees like bony fingers stretching for the dark sunless sky. I could feel my heart beating against my rib cage, slowing every second. Realization dawned on me, I was going to die. I tried to move my chest, tried to suck in air, but none came. My heart stopped. My mind gave one final sigh. Then I felt nothing. Nothing at all. Darkness.
They say a man who lives fully is not afraid of death.
Yet, I have not lived fully, but I am not afraid of death. In fact, I find death intriguing. Where will I go? Will I be a ghost, or will I sleep forever? Will I go to Heaven or Hell? Valhalla? Reincarnation? Do I become one with the stars?
I don't know what I will face when I meet death, and this should scare me. It doesn't, because it's a mystery, and I love mysteries. Many would ask if I suffer from depression if I said this out loud, but I'm actually quite happy. But it's hard to find people who get what I mean.
Death is a painful truth, is what some say. I think Death is a foggy road, and we must get through that fog called life to finally see the clearing. It's yet another path to walk, and who is to say it will be our last?
Life may be the beginning, but who is to say Death is our last path? What if Death is the middle of the story, and you have to read through that to get to a place beyond death? Is there a place beyond death?
But if we go onto the next path after death, will it be our last path, or are we fated to keep walking?
All her life she had feared death, suppressed dealing with the notion, never ready to depart. Always for her there would be tomorrow and the day after. As she'd aged she'd kept company with older folks, after all, if they were still living then she was young. But there came a day when every one of her older friends had passed on and a fair few of the younger ones too. Time was no longer her casual acquaintance, but leading her steadily onward whether her feet wanted to follow or not.
Many said that when you die, you will meet a robed skeleton holding a scythe. Some said you go to Heaven or Hell. Some say that you are reincarnated. Some say you turn into a ghost, while some say you sleep for eternity.
Maybe one of those will happen to you. Not for me, though.
I never met the Grim Reaper's scythe that would take my soul. I never met the pearly white gates to Heaven, and I never went down the stairs to Hell to face my punishment, and hear the screams of the dead. I never was reborn into the world. I was never trapped on Earth as a ghost, and I never slept for eternity.
Instead, as cold tendrils embraced me like a lover, my vision fading and a final breath left my bloodied lips, I felt nothing. There was no emotion, no heavy weight upon my shoulders; just the feeling of floating, of being part of the world... Of being part of the stars.
I felt whole, as if I had found a piece of the puzzle I hadn't realised I needed. I was everything, and nothing could ever be better than this.
Death came to old Mrs Taggart like a shot from behind. One moment she was gazing at the sea, breathing in the salty air that took her all the way back to her youth, the next she was gone. The stroke gave her perhaps a half second of confusion and then it was "lights out." Given that we all have to die somehow, it was a gracious end for a gracious old dame.
Alexander lay in the hospital bed, knowing that the pain was tearing him apart but he couldn’t feel it, the nurses had made sure of that. Instead he just sat, patiently awaiting his demise, contemplating.
“At this time, I’m sorry to say, there is nothing more we can do” were was the words of Dr. Matthews. Fourteen simple words constructed of simple letters, spoke courteously through his soft English accent, that cut through Alexander. His eyes burned with an ache to sob as his stomach rock back and forth on the harsh waves of fear. Why are we taught to fear it, he asked himself. Why? Whether deaths is an eternal abyss of darkness, a fiery pit, of a clouded castle, we fear it. Whether it comes as a relief or a surprise, we fear it. Alexander couldn’t remember anyone teaching him to fear the inevitable, yet he did, but why?
Death came to her with the slow rattling gasps that had taken her father years before. Her breathing would stop for a time only to reemerge like a drowning victim coming up for one last breath. But in a few moments she had passed on, her earthly tether separated and her soul bound for the Lord.
Death in those black days was neither kind nor quick. The virus has a steady progression, a gruesome countdown to the demise of the inflicted. The stories that survived from the era told of the medics who hastened death wherever they could, anaesthetic and a pillow was kinder than the drawn out path of the sickness.
Death stalked the valley. There was no abode he wouldn't enter, no school or church. He stood as the life was choked out of almost every man, woman and child. He felt no joy or emotion of any kind, there was no heart to beat in his skeletal chest or tears to well in his black sockets. As their breathing faltered he brought down his scythe, cleaving their soul from the flesh that bound them.
Death is a body or shadow that lurks in the dark, he crawls under little children's beds and he is always there. He is always there, following you and the closer he gets the sooner he will take you as his own. He is the ghost that people fear and he is the tormentor of the many corpses claimed by death. You know when your time is nearing its end because you can feel the chill of his icy breath as it tickles the hairs on the back of your neck.
A mist, with silent steps. My eyes fell on its figure, my heart drenched by fear did not throb any longer. Everything fading into abyss.
Its eyes on me; burning coal with no shape. Numb, I could not feel anything around me. Eyes struggling to move I looked at my son's face twisting through my blending vision. Paralyzed in fear, I felt my breath being taken.
I closed my eyes and the last thing I heard was my son’s trembling 'don't leave me alone'.
'Do you not know me? I will tell you then:
I am he that conquers all the sons of men,
No pitch of honour from my dart is free...
I come to none before their warrant's sealed,
And, when it is, they must submit, and yield...
If Death commands the King to leave his crown
He at my feet must lay his sceptre down;
Then, if to Kings I do not favour give
But cut them off, can you expect to live
Beyond the limits of your time and space?...
I give the fatal wound, my dart is sure,
And far beyond the doctors' skill to cure...
The bones lay in the centre of the pit. It's once perfect bones lay in ruin amongst the dirt and rubble. People wailed as they saw the amount of bones that were scattered here. Falling on the ground I felt the anger throb and course inside of me. How could I have let this happen...
In the blasting heat of late August, Westenra went down as only the big and the strong can go down--like a felled oak.
Some people simply stood there and shook their heads in disbelief. The victim was mutilated beyond recognition.
I broke down and dropped to my knees,
The last breath had been pulled from my lungs.
Father, he reached for the cheeks and spoke,
“Find your faith, speak with no man’s tongues.”
Black traces of sin began to pour from my mouth,
And the devil stood to applaud.
Father stepped back in fear,
“Look within yourself to find God.”
But there is no God here,
Only a lost, broken soul.
A place where demons raise their young,
A place where shatters of glass are added to the coal.
But yet you tell me to look deep down here,
The place that harbors the secrets that never left my lips,
The place where my greatest of judgement trips.
The place that provides the solution my mind sips.
Don’t tell me to find my faith within,
Because the hell inside doesn’t allow a god.
What good is it to listen to myself,
When all the voices inside are leading me to the spinning rod.
So Father, forgive me when I say,
That you have done no good.
I think when I told you I was dying,
You simply misunderstood.
There is no light hiding in the darkness of these shadows,
The pieces inside don’t all fit.
You can’t just raise your hands and say a prayer,
Because upon entering the Holy Spirit got the faith scared out of it.
I called to you in need of a miracle,
And you looked at me with pity.
You turned from my cry,
As if I hadn’t tried everything already.
Father, look with your eyes at the worst of failures,
See what happens when you let the suppressed come out to play.
Do you not understand what happens when you’re four months overdue,
And the devil tells you it’s time to pay.
But look no more,
You have absolutely no reason to cry.
Father, I have only one request;
When the next scream calls your name,
Promise to atleast try.
"Death, my child, is straightforward. It is not a gate to immortality but simply, a departure from life. It has no pattern in which those of from the Great Beyond control. And it will be there until the time comes for the world to end. Now child, head my words. Death is inevitable. He will turn a blind eye to right and wrong, to give the Eternal Slumber in return for the life of any man, woman, or child no matter how favorable. He does not discriminate, unlike those of the vastly different human race. He is neither fair nor unfair, unmoved by the prayers that grasp him through the nights and days like a statue frozen amongst the crowds."
I no longer fear death, only where would I go. I have sinned so much; I would understand if the lord sent me to the pits of hell for the things I have done. Or would he forgive me because he knows my heart, knows I am just another innocent soul that allow myself to be persuaded by wrong things? I would love to go to heaven and live in peace for the rest of my afterlife with Jesus and his angels, and death is the only way. I am willing to change just to be sure if I die I will be going to a better place instead of worrying I might go to hell.
When Madeline remembered the death of her two young children during the plague she would always become detached. The figure of the raven doctor haunted her dreams and every morning she would awake with a jolt. Every minute of every day she would be reminded of their death. Her haunting face didn't help her forget either; there were scars from the boils that had once covered her porcelain face. Her children would forever haunt her and she wondered if even when she had reached her grave if they would they still scratch at her soul.
Since I was a child, I had always feared the thought of Grim Reapers. With their tattered cloaks and skeleton bodies which I had imagined must have reeked of death and disrepair as they drag your soul to the after life. Most of my life, I regret to say, was filled with worry as if these hideous creatures lurked behind every corner.
Not until my life began to reach its end, my skin thin and tearable like paper with more grey hairs in my head then I could count, did I began to rethink the thought of these messengers of death.
In my final days in this world, a resurfacing thought would pass through my mind. Perhaps they may not be as terrible as I had accused them to be. If these creatures were so kind enough to visit you and guide you to the afterlife, how malicious could they really be?
That is why dear reader, after my eyes had adjusted to the blinding light that had enveloped me after my death, I took the skeletal hand outstretched to me gently without a second thought.
As I leave you with these parting words, if you only take one thing away, let it be this. Do not fear the reaper but rather greet him like a dear friend.
Like a silent yet faithful companion, he waited. And waited, till at last she could take his hand and leave the living; they were not truly, how could they? It dawned on him at the moment, although ironic for a dark being he knew, that he felt...he felt? Pain? Regret? Despair? Yes, he remembered. The hand that had been offered was warm, familiar and a giver of true happiness. But he could not yearn for that. It was forbidden. Sparing the woman a last glance, he sped off into the comforting folds of darkness, cherishing the sweet smile she had bequeathed him as she stepped into a place of light.
Don't they say that none of us will leave this world alive? Yet for my part I intend to leave the biggest and most beautiful footprint I can. Maybe yours will be right next to mine, that it is together we walk, together we leave a path to guide future generations.
The say you die twice, the first when they bury you in the grave and the last time that somebody mentions your name.
Everyone knew this quote, and yet it felt a lot more real, now that somebody close to her had died.
She made a note to mention his name at least once every day, in some desperate hope that this would keep him close to her, but it hurt. Every time she spoke his name it hurt.
She closed her eyes each time and after some months, it didn't hurt as much anymore.
Tears stained her cheeks, making her eyes glassy as she whispered goodbye to her family, who were distraught. Her mind went haywire as she lay on the floor, her heart slowing, breathing too calm and skin paling as her life was slowly, gently, drained from her body like the crimson red blood which was pooling around her. She never wanted to die, but that didn't mean she feared it nor did she regret taking that bullet, she would gladly do it again to save her family. When death came she took his hand and, for the first time in a long time, she was completely at ease and safe. She took one final glance at her family who clutched her lifeless body and smiled an ambivalent smile before walking into the deep abyss.
With no mercy or kindness, a single and final touch would burn hollow souls into nothing but ashes on a barren ground, and turn minds into a damp cold cave of morbid nothingness; the odious faceless shadow had one name: death.
Holding life and death in each palm is corrupting, a reckless dissolution of joy. I spend each day with these overwhelming weights. Which one will I let go of ?Which one will I hold on to? An appalling darkness pierces me, much like the darkness of the ink stains that cover the tips of my crooked fingers. I have not seen a mirror in days, but I know how my eyes are sunken wearily and my pores are full of dirt.
The sooner we all realize how impermanent our life is, the less entangled we will get in superficial things, things that bring pain within our hearts. Allowing the thought of death to enter our minds is something that seems surreal and scary, however it provides us with true feelings and guidance. Death will eventually come, it could be today, it could be tomorrow or it could be in many years. So why do we dwell on the thought of death? Every day there’s people dying, every second someone is saying goodbye to their loved ones, it could even be someone’s pet. Why do we allow death to scare us?
Blinding white light hit her from all angles, invading her vision with unnatural luminosity. If someone ever stuck their head in a pile of snow, this, she supposed, would be what it looked like. Freezing, all consuming, merciless. The bleached out desert gave her nothing to focus on, no relief.
Death seemingly wasn’t as black as she thought it would be. There wasn’t a single fog cloud, and the River Styx was nowhere in sight.
When I awoke, a figure stood, again toying with my peripheral. Teasing the idea of full view. I cried out all I had known amongst the stones and none more than sweet Ophelia, for she was the only stone marked by a thing not in secrecy. Decorated with her assortment of many a flora. It did not answer me, nor did it discredit me. I felt ashamed I did not know its name, even after its many visits to my hands. It dressed in stone and wore many a different palette of assorted browns and greens. Stark though its scheme was it did not at all seem out of place, it belonged here.