Tuesday, April 9, 2013



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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