He stands beside your bed.
Black robes and invisible shadow,
Cloaked visage and bowed head.
He watches the fading glow,
The flickering candle,
Once a youthful forge,
Dimmed to a fireplace mantel,
Now on death’s verge,
A smoky dim flame.
You hack a dry cough,
The figure plays his waiting game,
Waiting to switch you off.
He is just doing his job,
Not out of hatred,
Nor to ease the pained sob
Or heavy soul like lead.
He cares not for your fame
Or wealth and wisdom
Or how you were sick and lame
Or your cruelly ruled kingdom.
His mantle flaps gently,
Unsheathed dagger in skeletal hand,
And he thrusts it into your belly,
Ushering forth a dark land.
- Anonymous
Image: Saachi Gupta
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