Death, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Imagine, Poems, Poetry

The Reaper Dies Slowly

An abandoned house,
with the chronicles of death painted on the walls.

In the shadows of its doom, the Reaper lurks
and watches over with merciless eyes.

Waiting for the Omnipresent,
to whisper a name,
for he shall devour the soul,
without a question.

Everything that he touches,
transcends from space and time,
to the spaces between the space.

He has never loved a flower
or held a newborn,
he has never cried or even laughed
and now he is dying slowly.

Of all the lives he has taken,
the Reaper is now slowly dying out of life,
and I cannot say
whether It is painful
or whether is beautiful,
but it is sad.

It should be.