The Reaper is not Grim
I see you as you walk around;
None of you escape my gaze.
I take such joy in watching you crawl
Along your pointless ways.
You never see me watching you
As you live your useless lives;
Little bugs on their little jobs,
Worker bees in hives.
From the moment you are born,
Your clocks all start to tick.
Your lives all start to take their shape
As houses, brick by brick.
But just like the ancient tale,
The Bad Wolf comes to town;
And I, unlike that wretched dog,
Will blow your houses down.
The ultimate futility
Of the choices that you make;
What you do, when you do it,
Whatever roads you take;
This is the sweet wine in my cup,
And I do drink my fill;
For whichever roads you all may ply,
The end is the same still.
And when at last I come for you,
And come for you I must,
You will remember what you were told,
That, at last, all is dust.
And when I’m standing by your beds,
Watching as all your souls leave,
I will laugh at the pain of your loved ones;
For I am Death, and I do not grieve.
I have never actually lost someone. Never. What I know of the pain of death is from vicariously living through people I care about, people who have lost friends, siblings, parents.
Sometimes, I wonder if I would cry. I don’t know. I really don’t want to find out.
This piece was written by I.K.E.N.N.A., and it was a solemn night when we read it. Follow him: @thisisbfg on Twitter. (He’s actually a cool niggah when he’s not writing death-themed poetry)
THANK GOD IT’S FRIDAY. (You know the undertones there: drink responsibly, drive carefully, don’t pull any stupid-as-shit stunt, because, you know, Death is watching. And the bastard is laughing.)