The Grim Reaper

The Grim Reaper Tangled sheets like an ancient shroud Head askew, bowed as if in submission, Eyes, unmoving, stare through the sterile light. Grey pallored skin, wrinkles fading, smooth as silk Reflecting times and tides long past that Instil a sense of a life not lived, or loved. Machines tick and hum and a pulse flashes Raising hopes from empty childhood dreams Etched as a memory now locked from the inside. Actions and words may speak of hope, or dread, Perhaps of what she may become, Each day brings echoes of all that was Recalled in every fought for shallow breath.