Smiling-scythe Reaper

It understands

How short our interval on earth is.

So little time.

Snapshot-thoughts too quick to pursue.

Voices too distant to hear.

Music yet unknown,

To be composed.

And all because

The thing in black

Cuts off lives with his scythe,

As if we were crops needing harvest,

Or wild growth refusing to be tamed.

But…

What does it all matter,

When eternity beckons,

Or infinity,

Or nothingness

Our choice?

Why must there be

Heavy curtains drawn,

Windowsills of sluggish or dead flies and spiders,

Emails unread,

Key’s to one’s everywhere collecting dust,

A bed like a drifting boat with one sail,

Listless amidst the rising dead air of cigarette smoke.

Time’s last few breaths…

When the shops and cafés are closed,

When it’s already after hours,

When weddings and funerals are gone,

Receding into the cumulous clouds of Neverland,

No one sure of where they’re going.

Does the Smiling-scythe reaper know?