Ode to Death

Death, you are so misunderstood.
You are a pitbull,
you are a flat tire
just short of railroad tracks,
you are a man with
a broken heart wrongfully
convicted of murder.
You are not the killer,
but you're the one people fear.
You are the guide
to the afterlife,
so you are the scapegoat.
You are the unhappy man
who has never shed blood
but has red hands anyway.
I am not afraid
of you, Death.
You are a comfort to me.
I will not flinch
when you take my hand,
but I will follow you
and decline to ask
"are we there yet?"
like a tired child
from the back seat.