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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 the Reaper and I feel you should agree.
He is exhausted by Life’s demands and quirks
He has to go out collecting the dead but what irks
Is he has Life’s poems to write, so his times not free
Can you hear that shusshing sound, lets see what can that be …..
It’s billions of egg timers set out on shelves .
The sands of time running out for you and me.
I almost feel sorry for Reaper and you should agree.
He is exhausted by life’s demands and quirks

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?
He holds the number’s of you and me.
There is never a moment when he can be free, not even time 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 and I feel you should agree.
He exhausted my life’s demands and quirks
He has to go out collecting the Dead
He has to write Life’s poetry.
Nov 23, 2019 @ 03:45:54
I love this.
Nov 23, 2019 @ 04:02:03
Thank you Robbie, poor old death so busy 💜💜
Nov 23, 2019 @ 04:24:39
Excellent poem !! You had a vivid imagination 👏👏
Nov 23, 2019 @ 09:40:08
Thank you 💜
Nov 23, 2019 @ 10:00:32
Fantastic piece of work Willow 💜
Nov 23, 2019 @ 09:34:02
Thank you Michelle it’s an old one I revamped.💜💜