Death Life’s Poet

My good friend  and fellow blogger  Martin Shone  wrote that he saw Death  as Life’s Poet. I loved this idea  and wrote this poem below  about my poor over worked friend Grim ( as in the Reaper AKA Death) You can see more of Martin’s thoughts here .

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The room would appear to be empty and dark

But what is that, a scratching , scratching,  hark!

Slowly your eyes grow accustomed  to the lack of light

There in the corner is an old guy working,  a curious sight .

 

Who is this, who can it be ? It is Death ( in his civies ) writing  Life’s Poetry.

I almost feel sorry for Reaper I do and I feel you should agree.

He is  exhausted by life’s demands and quirks

He not only has to go out collecting the dead  but

He has Life’s poems to write, he’s no shirk.

 

Can you hear that shusshing sound, lets see what can that be …..

It’s  billions of egg timers  set out on shelves . They represent you, the rest of the world and me.

 

I almost feel sorry for Reaper I do and I feel you should agree.

He  is exhausted by life’s demands and quirks

He not only has to go out collecting the dead  but

He has  Life’s poems  to write, he’s no shirk.

 

He is always busy now writing poetry and collecting the  dead

And there’s  more’  for he now has an apprentice to teach and keep fed.

Don’ t you feel a pang of sympathy for him, who  holds the number’s of you and me.

There is never a moment when he can be free, not even a moment for hot cup of coffee.

Well he is very busy right now as we can see

And I think there is somewhere , anywhere  else that we should be.

 

I almost feel sorry for Reaper I do and I feel you should agree.

He exhausted my life’s demands and quirks

He not only has to go out collecting  the Dead  but

He has  Life’s poems to write, he’s no shirk.

 

 

 

 

 

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