416 – The Reaper

Poem number 416


The Reaper


I sleep, fragile, whilst you sit in a chair

Waiting. Content. Your right foot taps the beat

Of some half remembered tune and you care

Not a jot for what’s to come. My defeat

Is nothing, for what is one among scores

When each one looks the same. Another day

Another dollar. A million doors

Slammed shut. You hum whilst my life slips away,

Rub your thumb along the edge of your scythe

And think of your dinner. You have no heart

No soul to ache. But I, once young and lithe

Now fade to dust whilst my soul falls apart.

.  I will ache enough for both of us, Death

.  So swing your scythe. I will take my last breath.


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