A Poet Passes With Gentle Hands
I closed my eyes as midnight struck,
It’s almost morning now.
I’d hoped he’d be on time,
I’d hoped he’d come to take me,
I spent my whole life writing rhymes,
Now it’s done I’d hoped he’d come personally.
I had believed,
But my body is cold now.
I had believed,
But I’ve grown so old now,
I wasn’t sure he’d come.
Just as I lost all hope,
A booming voice spoke to me,
Then he gently took my hand
And said: “THIS WAY PLEASE.
SORRY I’M SO LATE,
MY HORSE, HE HAD TO EAT.
BUT I HAVE ARRIVED AT LAST,
AND I’M AFRAID IT’S TIME TO LEAVE.”
He took me across the desert sand,
In a dark and starless night,
He took me home, the long way round,
Past mirrors, past my life.
He told me: “MANY PASS WITH FROWNS,
AND SOME FOLK PASS WITH GLEE,
BUT POETS PASS WITH GENTLE HANDS,
THOUGH IT’S ALL THE SAME TO ME.”
I asked this death, this Reaper Man,
What made this world suffice?
He left a gentle pause, then answered:
“CATS. CATS ARE NICE.”.
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