I am writing again.
Death takes our breath. Steals from us in a moment
of sudden, sharp finality.
We look and we see the black. We feel the cool draft of this known reaper’s
path. We reach for his sharpened scythe, foolish and vain, and realize its
blade does not exist in the mind, but in the blood of our hand now cut wide.
I am not in awe. I am not disturbed. I am not so moved. I am not many things
which I may have imagined myself to be when I at last encountered his Eminence,
keeper of time and records.
I am simply bleeding and in belief of his efficacy.
Oh shadow, I thank thee for thy swift mercy.
I nod to thy grim task and unadorned efficiency of duty.
I mourn thy solitude.