The Reaping
Why
Realize
It’s inevitable
Yet certain ones
Tales of how they try
In vain of course to hold fast
To fend off the end by trick or bribe
Always looking, waiting, pacing much to long
When no clock, nor sundial, nor hourglass will say
When the shadowy figure will finally arrive
Cloaked in black and hooded of course
But what lies beneath, chilling
And the scythe gleaming
There is no escape
He’s collecting
Many souls
Death