The Reaper Knocks Poem by Ros Venn

The Reaper is at the door. I can hear it knocking,
Its scythe makes a sound. I find it quite shocking,
I refuse to answer, I wish not to give Death its entrance,
Surely upon my life, it has nothing that it shall enhance,
It knocks again and calls to me in a raspy voice,
"Open the door, let me in" it spoke as cold as ice,
Astral projection of its skeletal form, now incorporeal,
Passing through the door itself, left to ponder, is this for real?
The physical body outside continues to pound on the door,
Spirit's ethereal hand over my shoulder, freezing me to the core.
Whispering in my ear as its voice turns into an internal thought,
Incoherent, I cannot comprehend. The knocks continued onslaught.
Taking possession of my body, forcing me toward the door,
I resist, but this force must persist, reconsider it implored,
Seeing my own hand reaching for the lock and unbolting,
The door opened as the smell of Death was now revolting,
Now in control for a brief moment, I reach back for support,
Grasping at nothing but air behind, hope now is cut short,
Death now pulls me out through the doorway. Once more,
I reach back, grasping anything, to find a hand I am sure,
My brother heard my cry for help, and he grabbed my arm.
Pulling me back inside the house, protecting me from harm,
Saving me from the Reaper this day, as the presence left,
Death has gone for now; its whispers leaving me bereft.