The Demise of Death
I still see him
Walking slowly beneath broken streetlamps,
Sitting at the edge of the needle-strewn playground.
He seems slower, less busy about his work,
An air of defeat stains his scythe.
I believe he is suffering from “post Covid trauma”
For he is death and death is his
His domain, his milieu, his life.
He weeps as he talks of the pain
Of death stolen, pilfered by politicians
Secreted behind pain and plexiglass
Inflicted upon the living by those
who stole death from death itself
used his ”scythe” to force compliance
hold death hostage without ransom.
Now he sits sorting through the detritus
Of the weary, the wounded, the hopeless
Who wander with him, sit with him
Wondering how death could be so cruel.
Copyright © John Lawless | Year Posted 2023
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