Benjamin Bartley Poet Narrative

Parody of The Death God

I curtsy to say may he allow me one last dance 
At the end of my play, at the end of my last day. 
A celebration of life, mine, in due time. 
When soon but no one knows absolutely when 
Do they? Perhaps, he does. 
Covering the Earth as the shadow of Life 
Lurking everywhere in between rebirth. 
Always on alert for something to become dirt. 
Soil is his soul.   Shadows, his coal.
He needs no black robe nor a scythe, 
He has no bloody body nor real eyes. 
He shovels lots of it, everywhere, all the time. 
He expects no bows when the curtain calls 
All prayers go unanswered, perhaps just simply ignored. 
When the time comes, he does his job. 
He transcends them upstairs, or casts them down below 
Complacently, he doesn’t really care about high or low 
Me or you or anything at all, as long as he just does his job. 

It must be important, 
Life seems to depend on it.

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