Dark Places

I Am Death

I think that...

I think that I am Death.

I am the Grim Reaper.  My cloak is in for dry cleaning (some of those stains are murder to get out) and my scythe is in the shop being sharpened.  Still, though, I am Death.

I wander the world, plucking souls from the living like feathers from a chicken.  Not that I've ever plucked a chicken, nor would I consider doing so.  When I eat said deceased poultry, it no longer looks like it did when it was running around laying eggs.  Well.  I would assume they didn't drop eggs as they ran around, but you get my point.  I can feel the pull as the soul desperately tries to keep hold of the body that has been its vessel throughout its life.

Would it be so endeared if the body was instead, perhaps, a kettle, or a bean can, or a Salt and Vinegar crisp packet?  I doubt it.  Something about a body, though, makes people want to stay wrapped up in the flesh.  To feel the heart within beating.  To know there's blood pulsing through the veins.  And when they trip or they cut themselves shaving or they fight, and blood is spilled, at least they know they're alive.

Until I come along, of course.  Until I make them the equal of a certain finger licking chicken.

Until I suck out their soul like the Saturday night Lottery Double Rollover Jackpot.  Except, there's no six numbers.  There's no bonus ball.  There's no car, cruise or cottage by a lake.

There's simply me.  Death.  Screw that ticket up and toss it in the bin.  It doesn't matter what numbers you had.  You're not going to win.

Hey, that rhymed.  I'm a poet.  Who knew.  Maybe I should bring out a book.  Odes of the Reaper.  A best seller in all the dungeons and dark back alleys and places no-one dares to go.

The Consequence of Life

To live is to die

To smile is to cry

To hope is to fear

To speak is to hear

To laugh is to taste

The bitterest waste

To lose is to win

To do good is to sin

To cheer is to sigh

To know is to ask why

To live is to die

Maybe I should stick to my day job, eh?  Leave the poetry to those that have a heart and have a... well... a soul.  A heart that still beats and a soul which still feels that beat.  I'd have a hell of a time finding a publisher anyway.  Most people can't see me until it's too late.  Not the best idea, is it, to talk to a publisher or agent in the moments before I take their soul and watch their beloved body crumple?

I think I'll leave it.  I hardly have time anyway.  Being Death is a busy job.  It takes up almost all my time.  People need to die at all hours of the day and night.  If it wasn't for Sky +, I'd never catch an episode of Coronation Street or Doctor Who.

Really, you'd think that dying could be timed better.  A sign on the door of my non-existent door: