A short poem about the reaper and his duties to himself and all of us. |
-The Reaper- by Keaton Foster Here he comes Down the street Across the way Facing his change No choice can be made He will take us And we must go To heaven above To the hell below Concerns him least of all He works for God On loan to Satan Balance is everything There can be no life Without certain death Forward or reversed When he calls our name When he looks our way When he reaches out his hand We cannot refuse The means or the manner Varies as much as our lives He is and will always be The reaper Death’s masterful servant He does not hate us Such a thing as hate Is certainly not required He does not love us Such a thing as love Is uniquely foreign to him He understands Only one thing One absolute His duty to humanity There is nothing else How could there be The reaper Was he once alive I’d like to think he was But more than likely He has never been He does what he must And if and when you see him Such a sight will be your last Don’t take it personal Because I’m sure that he doesn’t It’s his duty to humanity Just like living and dying Is ours… The Reaper Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2013 |