I guess we don’t realize
The Reaper doesn’t weep
At our births, most probably,
He smiles. I ponder on
Prolific life
Earth has led.
I smile, myself,
With past joy,
Of when or where doesn’t matter.

Reapers reap, or there wouldn’t be
A word for their existence.

I guess we don’t feel ourselves, anymore,
As young and fresh as the world once was,
At our births, I know
I don’t. I wonder why
Prolificacy of life
Creates death. And,
I know, in myself,
Is past joy,
Of here or there doesn’t matter.

Weepers weep, or there wouldn’t be
A need for their existence.

I guess we don’t understand
Souls never die, but flesh does,
Over and over, again, earthly-wise.
I see where I wander
Policies of life,
Developing waste. And,
I feel, in myself,
A pretense of joy,
Of Now or Then doesn’t matter…

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 10/30/06