No, I must disagree
Death is not a thing of beauty
Of joy in afterlife
Death is not a thing of poetry
Of romantic notions of love
Left behind

For those who are yet alive
Death hits you like a betraying punch
Like a slip on the stairs
At the bottom of which
You look up unpleasantly surprised
And hurt
You shake yourself off
And tell yourself it’s nothing
But you’re black and blue
And in pain

Death is horror
At seeing a loved one so different
So completely at odds with life
Their face a loving mockery
Of that which you love and miss
And then
Death is guilt
First, why can’t you cry
Second, why can’t you stop crying
At the funeral
You’re seated too far from the tissues
But the ones clutched tightly in your hand
Are soggy and full of holes
So you let the tears and snot
Trail down your face
As you try not to sob too loudly.

Later, the horror and guilt and sadness fade
Brought back only by an odd memory
Death becomes yet again a mystery
Like the memory of pain
Never quite as bad as when you go through it
But remembered none the less

No, Death is not beautiful
At least it wasn’t for me