Whim Of The Reaper Grim Poem by David Whalen

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An unnoticed jostle in a crowded hallway
A sudden cool breeze ‘pon the nape of ones neck
Near miss in a crosswalk yesterday
Fenders crunching in a nearby wreck

A tap on one's shoulder
And there's no one there
Fleeting pain, deep in one's chest
Leaden sensation of weight
Pressing down on one's breast
Cold breath in one's ear
From out of nowhere

Tis the unseen Reapers Grim
In their bustling about
Reminding us of our own mortality
Day in and day out

Their job is without end
Death but a constant part of life
Their Patron is Satan…
God, chance and fate…
Kismet and Karma,
Sickness and strife

So…the next time you feel
An unexpected chill…
A shifting shadow
From the corner of your eye
It could just be…you know
Your time to go
Or simply a Reaper
…Passing by…
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