The peace is passing

Death is called a terrible thing,

An end that cuts, a final sting.

But deeper still, beyond the pain,

There lies a place free from the strain.

They look for beauty everywhere,

In fleeting joy or the morning air.

Yet death, they shun, refuse to see

The quiet calm it comes to be.

For those who choose to leave the fight,

I do not judge; I see their light.

A courage bold, a heavy cost,

To find their peace in what was lost.

Imagine the ache that led them there,

A burden too great for one to bear.

To take that step, to end their cry,

To say, "It's time to say goodbye."

And I, at times, feel much the same,

Caught in a storm I cannot name.

At twenty-one, I've felt it all—

The rise, the fall, the endless call.

But still, I wait, though tired and torn,

Unsure if peace is meant or sworn.

Perhaps one day, I'll feel it too,

The freedom found in something new.

Death is not the monster we fear,

But a hand that whispers, "Rest is near."

Not an end, but a gentle release,

A final sigh, a lasting peace.