WITTENOOM
They sit in plush
leather chairs
In glass plated
offices
These high priests
of Industry
and make their
offers.
My hand is pale
upon the sheet
As I measure the
cost of a life.
Husband, children,
mother, father
Sister, brother.
We played in the
sun
Picnicked in cool
gorges,
sang away summer
nights
thinking it would
last forever.
The Reaper too,
Sang his song
Hidden from us,
by time.
One by one
Unasked, he came
for them
scorning the three
score years and ten,
tearing them away
from life,
from family, from
friends.
The nurse is jolly
Pumping pillows,
asking if
I'm ready to see
my son.
He comes with new
creases on his brow.
There is fear in
his eyes
When he tells of
the lesions on his lung.
He grasps my hand
Seeking reassurance,
begging comfort.
I feel his
strength and terror
but I am attuned
to them
who have gone
as I wait
for the Reaper's
song.
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