Death, death,

I hear you calling my name.

I feel your warm, moist breath.

Is this some sort of game?

 

The reaper's feet move softly,

With stealth and lore;

Drawing away from the wealth,

That I once bore.

 

"No more, no more, "

I cry out, in vain.

The reaper comes

To ease my pain.

 

He whispers softly, in my ear;

As his stench

Like rotting skin,

Fills the air.

 

"Not much longer,

Will I wait.

I have never yet,

Been late for a date."

 

I beg for life,

As he sheaths a knife,

Covered with the

Blood of saints.

 

I touch my side,

Warm and moist and

See his knife

Has a new layer of paint.

 

"Not much longer friend, " he says,

As he drifts away,

Laughing evilly,

As is his way.

 

"Not much longer,

Will I wait.

I have never been

Late for a date."

 

An Encounter With The Reaper

Copyright 2001 By Jeff Benda