Death and the Prodigal Daughter
I slide into the seat across from her,
her head slumped in her hands.
As the needle ticks down to her last breath,
I eagerly await my claim.
The coffee under her hanging head is untouched,
as cold as the blood in her veins.
Her last teardrop splashes into her cup,
and the sounds of a thousand oceans collide on every shore.
There it is.
The teardrop of hope containing her hearts last cry.
Though I death, have come this night to take,
I choose to abate.
I reach inside and flip the switch on her damaged soul,
where memories of loved ones were buried when she ran away.
She lifts her now clear head into a radiant new light,
and drinks her coffee and orders more.
I move on for the next soul ready to go.