1 min read

He comes to collect

He shows up at my doorstep, basket in hand, gifts in another,

He tells me, "Mister, you know what time it",

I stare him in the face, directly into those glassy eyes,

I wonder what he means by that, but on some level, I think I know,

What could the reaper man want, maybe my life, maybe my soul,

He watches me intently, like a hawk on the hunt for some prey,

His eyes never wavers, his gaze as strong as a dozen tsunamis,

He waits for my answer and I wonder what I should tell him,

Maybe I'd tell him one answer when he expects another,

I tell him, "Mr Reaper Man, give me one sec",

I close my eyes and search deeply for the one thing he wants to hear,

And when the answer finally comes, I make peace with myself,

I turn to him and stare into those deep empty eyes,

And tell him, "Mr Reaper Man, of course, you can get some of the apples from the backyard",

He smiles at me as he lays the gifts down at my feet, some chocolate, some sweets and the sweetest cup of milk,

He wishes me a good day and he's soon on his way,

It's always enthralling to run into the man that leaves death in his wake.