The Reaping

Death looks up and shakes his head,

marveling at another dead.

"Again?" he asks a little tired,

"why is this job even required?"

 

He stands and stretches,

then moves on to the distant ledges.

Pausing a moment to watch the moon,

he soon descends on impending doom.

 

He views the scene with endless sorrow,

trying not to think of tomorrow.

He gathers new members into the flock,

clucking and coaxing them up the block.

 

He shoos them to the open meadow,

leaving them to another fellow.

Then death returns to his chair,

knowing his brother will come to care.

 

The ever powerful man of old,

soon appears in the developing cold,

waves a greeting to his sibling,

then takes his flock from the reaping.

Author's Note

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Reviews

[New Dawn]

wow, great poem, wonderful rhyme but more importantly a great story told. I could almost feel reapers weariness at his endless task. Impressive