The Reaper Poem by Michael Hunter

How sharp is your sickle?
Will I just be another sheaf, bundled for the harvest?
Stacked for the inferno?
Crushed and tossed on the thresher's floor?

Will you level the playing field?
Shall I hold still as your blade shaves my life away?
Swish
Snick
Fall
Lay still, looking at the clouds sweeping me away.

Are your hands cold and un-comforting?
Will I shrink from your touch and cry out in fear? Or,
Are they warm and inviting, and cause me to simply trust?

Is you breath hot and fetid?
Does it stink of decay and destruction?
As you breathe over me, my eyes flutter and begin to water...
Your breath smells like a casket spray.

O Death! Death! Stay your sickle and the harvest!
Please don't touch me and make me long for your embrace!
Please - the rosebuds in your breath do not belong here...
Not in this season of my life!

How sharp is your sickle?
How warm are your hands?
How sweet is your breath?
How long do I have until I welcome your felling embrace and flower-scented kiss?

How sharp is your sickle?


© 2008 Michael Hunter