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.
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