Beneath the veil where shadows fall,
There walks a figure, tender and tall.
Her name is whispered, soft, not grim,
A guardian where even light grows dim.

No crown of thorns, no icy touch,
Her warmth, can only take so much.
Her cloak as the night, her gaze like a sea,
Reflecting what, we fear to see.

To guide, not snatch away,
To those who've let their spirits stray.
The weary hearts, the broken minds,
Those the world, left far behind.

When life unravels, thread by thread,
Some choose the quiet of the dead.
And though the living turn their eyes,
She hears the pitiful final cries.

She gathers them with hands so sure,
A healer of the wounds obscure.
No blame, no scorn, no biting tongue,
Just lullabies for the too high strung.

To her sunless lands, she gently treads,
A haven built for the restless dead.
No blinding suns, no blaring skies,
Just peace beneath her eternal disguise.

And there, she tends a silent flock,
With endless time, no ticking clock.
She crafts them dreams, a place to mend,
For even death has a duty to tend.

A kind death, yes, who dared to care,
When no one else could even stare.
She could not leave them in the dust,
Abandoned souls, betrayed by trust.

She walks alone, a quiet queen,
In realms where no bright sun has ever seen.
But her lands are safe, her duty clear
To cradle the lost who linger near.

So when you think of Death, be kind,
She holds the ones the world maligned.
And though her lands lack warmth or hue,
They glow with the care she reaps anew.