With sussurant cloak and creaking stride,
He grins with humor cast aside.
The greeter of all has tracked my spoor.
And lifts his scythe beside death’s door.
No trace of hope, no sign of eyes,
My plea for pity he’d despise.
I snatch a look into his face,
And worriedly step up the pace.
His costume dark, his soul to match,
I will not be an easy catch.
I am not winded, I am strong,
But he is used to marches long.
He will not tarry or delay,
And knows that there will come a day,
When my steps falter, joints aflame,
And he will beat me at this game.
He’s never lost a soul they say,
For all are lost who go his way.
While I am running for my life,
He calmly whets his thirsty knife.
The time has come, betwixt the fests,
We stoutly sing in lurid jests.
To celebrate a year’s demise,
As flames leap up into the skies.
So patiently they do the job,
“The candles are lit now, Uncle Bob.
Blow them out, and make a wish!”
(Try not to listen for the swish.)
For unseen, he has entered here,
I feel his presence hovering near.
One of these years he’ll get his man,
But I’ll keep running while I can!
NicknamedBob . . . . . February 23, 2004
