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Born to die

I am the sometime keeper of the dead. Sometime, because to keep forever the terrible trophies won by time is a task beyond anyone of flesh and blood. It is a thankless task, tending to what remains. I am not afraid of the reminder, as others seem to be. Feeding the forever-hungry worms is our prime function. At times, often after a new addition, I become vilified by the residents, as though it were I who signalled the Reaper to cut that particular stalk. It is of course ridiculous. I have no more say in who dies than I have say in who lives. I consider myself merely a vessel of purpose, looking from the day I was born into the eyes of death. All I can do is try not to blink at the terrible gaze. When all is said and done, I have no more say in who dies than I have say in who lives. They walk oblivious, most of the time. It is only when someone is carried down my path that they see what I see every day. To see them quake at the sight sometimes makes me chuckle at the most inopportune moments, since they put great stock in their rituals of farewell. They do not want to hear that there is no faring well on the far side of life. If I say a word out of place their eyes curse me, as though it were I who chose their relative for the longest sleep. Of course, it was not I who made the choice. I am but a vessel. The choice was made long ago; on the very day that slowly rotting collection of cells was dragged screaming into the world of the living. From that day forth it was only a matter of time, not malice, before it was once more returned whence it came. It was not I who had say in the death, I can only hear the words spoken by the voice of death.